‘Why don’t you simply go up there and do so?’
‘We can’t, our little lungs would collapse. We have to live in the stuffiest atmosphere possible.’
‘Really? Have you ever tried fresh air?’
‘Of course. The higher we went, the harder it was to breathe. Too much oxygen would kill us.’
Beyond the candle factory we made our way along a narrow passage in which only one Bookling was coming towards us. I could tell at a glance that the book beneath his arm was a first edition of Immoral Tales of Old Florinth, a work so often banned and burnt that its rare original editions were right at the top of the Golden List.
‘What sort of risqué stuff are you reading now?’ Al asked as we passed him, wagging his finger in feigned reproach.
‘There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written or badly written, that’s all.’
So saying, the Bookling disappeared round a bend.
Al grinned. ‘I shouldn’t tell you this because he hasn’t Ormed you yet, but since we’re by ourselves. . .’ He peered round furtively. ‘That was—’
‘Rasco Elwid!’ I cut in. ‘Am I right?’
‘Spot on!’ Al said admiringly. ‘Only Rasco Elwid could be so relentlessly cynical. You’ve got a really good memory, my friend. You could easily be a Bookling - if you didn’t have one eye too many.’
The passages became bigger and bigger, and before long their bare stone walls were no longer lined with book covers. Leading off them and hewn out of the rock were some small chambers in which Booklings were busy operating printing presses, gluing books together by hand or stirring paper pulp in big vats. I also saw some casting lead type.
‘This is our book hospital,’ Al explained. ‘It’s where we restore worm-eaten or damaged books. We reconstruct texts and reprint them or repair the bindings. Books can be damaged in many different ways. Some get burnt, torn or eaten away by acid, others are transfixed by arrows or spears. We’ve even performed cosmetic surgery on some Animatomes before now.’
‘Where’s that reconstruction of the last chapter of Knots in a Swan’s Neck?’ a little Bookling called down the passage. ‘The glue will set if the pages aren’t inserted soon.’
‘Coming, coming!’ called another Bookling, hurrying down the passage with a sheaf of freshly printed pages in his hand.
We passed a pallid, corpulent Bookling who had covered his eye with his hand and was reciting a monotonous list of names and book titles: ‘Tarquo Ironbeard - Pitcher without a Handle. Albus Karaway - The Giant’s Funny Bone. Citronia Unkisst - The Princess with Three Lips . . .’
These were fictional characters from novels and the relevant titles, all by the same author. What was his name? It was on the tip of my tongue.
This time Al beat me to it. ‘Hornac de Bloaze,’ he said, lowering his voice to a whisper. ‘He was definitely too prolific. The poor fellow who has to remember all his novels keeps getting the principal characters mixed up - and no wonder, considering that de Bloaze wrote seven hundred books populated by umpteen thousand characters. That’s why he keeps reciting the names and titles.’
‘Februsio Argostine - Mahogany Soup. Captain Bloodblister - Bats in the Campanile. Erkul Gangwolf - Death of an Editor . . . ’ The Bookling continued his unceasing recitation of names and titles as we tiptoed out of earshot.
‘Hornac de Bloaze was so thoroughly permeated by the Orm that it compelled him to write almost twenty-four hours a day,’ said Al. ‘He’s said to have drunk vast quantities of strong coffee.’
‘You honestly believe in the Orm?’ I asked with a faint smile. ‘In that ancient hocus-pocus?’
Al came to a halt and gave me a long look. ‘How old are you?’ he asked.
‘Seventy-seven,’ I replied.
‘Seventy-seven?’ He laughed. ‘Ah, what it is to be young! All right, poke fun at the Orm while you can - that’s a tyro’s prerogative - but one day it will overwhelm you, and then you’ll comprehend its power and beauty. How I envy you! I’m no writer, I’m only a Bookling. I didn’t write Aleisha Wimpersleake’s works, I only committed them to memory and I’m far from being an admirer of everything that came from his pen. He could write absolute rubbish on occasion and his sense of humour often leaves a modern reader cold. But there are some passages, some lines of verse . . .’
Al’s expression became transfigured.
‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
and summer’s lease hath all too short a date:
sometimes too hot the eye of heaven shines,
and often is his gold complexion dimmed:
and every fair from fair sometimes declines,
by chance or nature’s changing course untrimmed . . .’
I recognised those lovely lines as coming from one of Wimpersleake’s sonnets. Al grabbed my cloak and tugged at it wildly. ‘That’s the Orm for you, understand? You can’t write stuff like that unless you’re absolutely awash with it! Verse of that quality doesn’t just pop into your head - it’s a gift !’
He let go of me.
‘So what exactly do you think the Orm is?’ I asked, smoothing my cloak down. His emotional outburst had left me feeling somewhat bemused.
Al looked up at the roof of the passage as if he could see stars there.
‘There’s a place in the universe where all great artistic concepts accumulate, bouncing off each other and generating new ones,’ he said, more quietly now. ‘Its creative density must be immense. An invisible planet with seas of music, rivers of pure inspiration and volcanoes that spew out ideas with brainstorms flickering in the sky around them. That’s the Orm, a field of force that dispenses its energy in abundance. But not to everyone. Only the elect can receive its emanations.’
Yes, yes, but why was it invisible, like everything you had to take on trust? Because it didn’t exist at all? Most older writers believed in the Orm. I decided to refrain from making any more critical remarks for courtesy’s sake.
We entered a cave whose dimensions almost equalled those of the Leather Grotto, except that the roof was much lower and displayed no stalactites. Hewn out of the walls were little niches containing all manner of objects - books, letters, writing utensils, cardboard boxes, bones - but I was too far away to identify them all.
‘Our archives,’ said Al. ‘We also call this place The Chamber of Marvels. Not because there are any marvels to be seen here, but because we can’t stop marvelling at all the stuff we’ve amassed.’ He chuckled. ‘This is where we keep any memorabilia we can lay hands on: letters, contemporary documents, devotional objects, manuscripts, contracts bearing authors’ signatures, personal ex-libris, hair or toenail clippings, glass eyes, wooden legs - you wouldn’t believe the things collectors hoard! We possess numerous authorial skulls and bones, even whole skeletons - even a poet mummified in toto. Other items include worn garments and used writing implements, spectacles, magnifying glasses, sheets of blotting paper, any number of empty wine bottles, drawings, sketches, diaries, notebooks, folders containing collected reviews, fan mail - in short, anything that can be proved to have been in the possession of the authors whose works we learn by heart.’
‘How does it all get down here?’
‘Oh, we have certain contacts that extend as far as the surface of Bookholm - friendly tribes of dwarfs resident in the upper reaches of the catacombs, for instance. Besides, many of these objects used to be stored below ground in the same way as old and valuable books. Then again, there are the Bookhunters, with whom we . . .’ Al gave a sudden exclamation and clapped a hand over his mouth as if he’d startled himself.
I looked at him. ‘What do you do with the Bookhunters?’
Al walked on quickly. ‘Nothing, nothing. Hic! Pardon my hiccups. I was only going to say that one of Aleisha Wimpersleake’s wisdom teeth is worth at least as much as a First Folio in excellent
condition.’ He cleared his throat noisily.
I refrained from pressing him further. We were now walking in a circle past the niches, in which the writers’ memorabilia were arranged in alphabetical order. I saw quills and inkwells, rubber stamps and ink pads, coins, pocket watches, memo slips, letter scales, paperweights, a single glove.
‘Do you buy these things with the proceeds of your Diamond List?’ I asked.
‘No, no, we don’t trade in books. We have other sources of income.’
Other sources of income, eh? These Booklings were mysterious little creatures. What did they want with all this junk? A stuffed Gargyll with a glass eye. A bundle of foxed letters held together by a blue ribbon. A pewter urn. Some dried flowers. The sole of a shoe. Some blotting paper. Marvels they certainly weren’t.
‘Are you interested in any particular author?’ asked Al.
I wasn’t, to be honest. I’d never been one for personality cults. Did I really want to see one of Melvin Hermalle’s toenail clippings? The pen with which Gramerta Climelth wrote Gone with the Tornado? A hair from the nose of Asdrel Chickens? Daurdry Pilgink’s sun helmet? No thanks, their works were all that mattered. However, courtesy prompted me to cite a name.
‘Dancelot Wordwright,’ I said.
‘Ah, Wordwright, I understand,’ said Al. ‘Then we’ll have to look under W.’
Could one of Dancelot’s personal possessions really have found its way so deep into the catacombs? It was unlikely, but I didn’t want to rob Al of the pleasure of showing me round his less than marvellous Chamber of Marvels. It was a long way to the letter W and the objects in the niches we passed soon became repetitious: pens, inkwells, pencils, paper, more pens, a letter, two letters, an inkwell - and more pens. I gave an involuntary yawn. Could anything be less fascinating than the personal possessions of an author? Even Atlantean tax inspectors surrounded themselves with objects of greater interest. A toothless comb, a tired old sponge . . . I hoped we would soon get there.
‘Trebor Snurb . . . Carmel Stroup . . . Esphalon Teduda . . .’ Al muttered the authors’ names to himself as he passed their niches. ‘Ah, here we are: Wordwright! I knew there was something of his.’ He took a small cardboard box from the shelf.
I was amazed. ‘Is there really?’
‘See for yourself,’ he said, handing me the little box.
I took it from him, opened the lid and saw a letter lying there - just one handwritten sheet of paper. I removed it and replaced the box in the niche.
‘I remember how this letter came to us,’ Al said. ‘It caused quite a stir. We found it lying just outside one of the entrances to the Leather Grotto. Really alarming, that was. It meant that someone down here - someone who wasn’t a Bookling - knew about our greatest secret. We were all very worried for a long time.’
A feeling of excitement surged through me as I examined the letter more closely. It really was in my authorial godfather’s handwriting! Dancelot had written this letter, no doubt about it! I read:My dear young Friend,
Thank you for sending me your manuscript. I can say without a word of exaggeration that I consider it to be the most immaculate piece of prose that has ever come into my hands. It genuinely moved me to the core. I hope you will forgive the following platitude, but I know of no other way to express myself. Your manuscript has changed my life. After reading it, I have resolved to give up writing and confine myself in the future to teaching your principles of literary craftsmanship to others - in particular, to my young authorial godchild, Optimus Yarnspinner.
I experienced another thrill of excitement at the mention of my name. What strange kind of bond - one that transcended time, space and death - was this letter forging between me and Dancelot? Tears sprang to my eyes.
Where you yourself are concerned, however, there is nothing I can teach you. You already know all there is to know, and doubtless far more than that. Though still young in years, you are already a consummate writer more brilliant than any of the classical authors I have ever read. The little I was privileged to assimilate while reading your manuscript reduced the entirety of Zamonian literature to the dimensions of a schoolboy’s essay. There is more talent in your little finger than in the whole of Lindworm Castle. The only piece of advice I can give you is this: Go to Bookholm! May, hurry there as fast as you can! You have only to show all you have so far written to a competent publisher and your future will be assured. You are a genius. You are the greatest writer of all time. This is where your story begins.
In profound veneration, Dancelot Wordwright
It hit me like a blow in the face, dear readers. The last few sentences banished any remaining doubt that this was the letter Dancelot had written to the author I was trying to find - the one that had sent him off to Bookholm. It had passed from Dancelot’s possession into that of the mysterious author, and now I was holding it in my paws. A new bond was being forged, this time between Dancelot, the author and my humble self. I had followed my unknown quarry’s trail and lost it. Now, in the depths of the catacombs, I had picked it up again. My head was spinning, my knees started to give way.
‘Oh!’ I groaned, searching for some means of support.
Al grabbed my arm. ‘Are you feeling ill?’ he asked.
‘No, no,’ I gasped, ‘I’ll be all right.’
‘You look as if you’d seen a ghost.’
‘I just did,’ I replied.
‘Our archives contain many ghosts from the past. Would you like to see some more of them?’ Al asked.
‘No thanks,’ I replied. ‘This one will do to be going on with.’
The Invisible Gateway
Outside the Chamber of Marvels we bumped into Wami and Dancelot, who had come to assist Al in showing me round the Booklings’ territory.
‘We’re now going to show you those parts of the catacombs that aren’t illuminated by candles,’ Al told me. ‘There aren’t any phosphorescent jellyfish either, but Wami and Dancelot are the best flame-throwers we’ve got.’
Grinning, Dancelot and Wami held up their pitch-pine torches, which were still unlit.
‘We’ll show you our forests and flower gardens,’ said Wami. ‘The whole of our untamed natural surroundings.’
Hadn’t Al just lamented the fact that he would never sit on a grassy bank? Where could forests and flowers grow down here, and what on earth did ‘flame-throwers’ mean?
‘It’s time someone acquainted you with the pleasanter features of the catacombs. Till now you’ve only seen their sinister, bewildering and unattractive aspects. We’ll show you what makes life worth living down here: a part of our gloomy world still untouched by decay and Bookhunters.’
‘Does it exist?’ I asked. ‘And how do we get there?’
Al, Wami and Dancelot gathered round, opened their eyes as wide as they would go and fixed me with a piercing stare. Then they began to hum.
The next thing I knew, I was standing in a stalactite cave on the shores of a lake whose pale-blue waters were as clear as glass. Wami and Dancelot had lit their torches, Al was gazing across the lake with a rapt expression.
I felt dazed.
‘My, oh my,’ I said. ‘Was that another example of teleportation?’ My head was ringing like a Bookholm fire alarm.
‘Exactly!’ said Wami. ‘Teleportation, tee-hee!’
‘It’s much easier than walking,’ Dancelot said with a grin.
So why did I feel as if I’d been plodding along for hours? My legs were as heavy as lead.
‘We teleported you so you’ll never be able to betray the route to our treasures,’ said Al. ‘We did it for your own good.’
‘Where are we?’ I asked.
‘This is the Invisible Gateway. Beyond it lies the Crystal Forest. I know it isn’t a particularly original name for such a place, but we’re no authors. Perhaps you can think of a better one.’
Nothing occurred to me on the spur of the moment. My brain felt like an empty sponge. Well, well, the Crystal Forest. I couldn’t see any
forest or any crystal, nor could I see an Invisible Gateway - but then, it was invisible by definition.
‘Just follow us,’ said Al, and the three little Cyclopses strode on ahead - into the blue lake. I followed them reluctantly.
The water was cold, but it only came up to my knees. Inquisitive silvery eels were swimming round us. I worried that I would catch my death and that the eels might give me an electric shock.
We were wading towards a black rock. I was afraid the Booklings would blunder straight into it when I noticed a yawning hole in its midst that was even blacker than the rock itself. The Invisible Gateway was an illusion. It looked like solid rock from a distance, but I now saw that it was a tunnel.
‘Ingenious, isn’t it?’ said Dancelot. ‘Nature erected this gateway: a hole disguised as a rock, a rock that’s really a gateway. Down here one could be forgiven for believing that rocks can think. We didn’t find it for a long time.’
After we had gone perhaps a hundred yards along the narrow, pitch-black tunnel it opened out into a large cavern.
‘This is where the Crystal Forest begins,’ Al said solemnly, and Wami and Dancelot, as though in response to a word of command, hurled their torches high into the air. On reaching their apogee they rotated several times, hissing loudly, and illuminated a roof of gleaming blue lapis lazuli. Beyond the stretch of shallow water in which we were standing lay what looked like a verdant meadow filmed with sunlit, sparkling dew. Then the torches descended, and Wami and Dancelot deftly caught them before they could land in the water and extinguish themselves. For one glorious moment I felt I was back in the open air again.
‘I wouldn’t advise anyone who values his feet to walk across that lovely-looking meadow,’ said Al. ‘The blades of grass are really razor-sharp slivers of green crystal.’
We set off along some stony paths that skirted the deceptive crystal meadow, in which red fire-opals glowed at many points like poppies, almost as if nature were imitating its Overworldly beauties in another medium.