The City of Dreaming Books

  I ascended a flight of steps hewn out of the rock. Completely covered with symbols, they led to a lofty, richly decorated portal. I was suddenly overcome by a notion that the purpose of all these symbols was merely to prepare me for another, even greater work of art - that they were an immense salutation carved in stone, or possibly a warning designed to attune me to what awaited me beyond the portal. I trembled, almost riven with suspense. Was it really wise to go on? My knees were knocking, my body was streaming with sweat. The symbols danced around me like snowflakes in a blizzard. They might be calling to me to turn back at once, for all I knew, but I didn’t understand their language.

  And then, after another three or four steps, the symbols disappeared from view. I was through the gateway and standing on the threshold of the next cave - in another world. Although it certainly wasn’t the biggest cave I had seen so far - the Rusty Gnomes’ railroad station was somewhat bigger - it contained what had to be the most astonishing edifice in the catacombs. While searching for words to describe it, I was reminded of Colophonius Regenschein’s lines of verse:

  A place accurséd and forlorn

  with walls of books piled high,

  its windows stare like sightless eyes

  and through them phantoms fly.

  Of leather and of paper built,

  worm-eaten through and through,

  the castle known as Shadowhall

  brings every nightmare true.

  A long, winding flight of steps led some way down into the cave, then up in a series of serpentine bends until it reached the building that seemed to jut from the opposite rock face like the bow of an enormous ship. A ship, whether of the future or dating from very ancient times, it might have been built by giants who had sailed the seven seas in it before sinking to the bottom of the Zamonian Ocean.

  Its windows stare like sightless eyes . . . Shadowhall Castle had a multitude of windows and doorways of various sizes, all of which had been bricked up except for one big open portal situated at its central point and approached by the winding flight of steps. At the foot of the castle, on either side of the steps, molten lava bubbling in hundreds of little craters bathed the building in a golden glow. The acrid vapours rising into the superheated atmosphere almost took my breath away. From time to time there was an audible gurgle followed by a dull plop, and a thin jet of liquefied rock soared into the air in front of the castle. It shot upwards like a rocket, then fell back in a shower of incandescent droplets.

  There was another remarkable feature, to my eyes perhaps the most remarkable of all: on every fourth or fifth step lay a scrap of paper. The trail that had been laid for me was intended to lure me straight into Shadowhall Castle.

  At this stage, dear readers, I naturally had no idea that this really was Shadowhall Castle, nor did I know what awaited me within its walls. I knew only that, if this was a trap, it was the biggest and most impressive trap the catacombs of Bookholm had to offer. Feeling duly flattered, I set off up the steps to the castle.

  Shadowhall Castle

  As I drew near Shadowhall Castle I noticed to my great surprise that it was a literary structure. What I had taken from a distance to be bricks were really close-knit layers of books. Having reached the top of the steps and, thus, the entrance to the castle, I was at last able to examine them at close quarters.

  With walls of books piled high . . . I now understood this line from Regenschein’s poem as well. Yes, the books were fossilised and seemed to have been laid without mortar, but it was hard to tell whether they were fossilised when used as bricks or had become so subsequently. I couldn’t help thinking of Pfistomel Smyke’s house and its ingenious dry-stone building technique. I was also reminded of my giant ant theory. I could readily imagine the creatures fetching books from the surrounding labyrinth, then gluing them together with an endogenous secretion at the behest of their monstrous queen, who had flown here from some distant planet and was now waiting for me inside, ready to join me in breeding a super-race of dinosaurs and giant ants that would . . .

  My imagination had run away with me, a sign of extreme tension. I had reached the threshold of the castle; now I would have to decide whether to enter it or beat a retreat. I could still turn back.

  I ran my eyes over the façade once more. Was this really an entire castle deeply embedded in the rock, or was it just a dummy, a gigantic half-relief? I couldn’t make up my mind whether it was forbidding or inviting. It was certainly fascinating.

  Its windows stare like sightless eyes, and through them phantoms fly . . . I didn’t find those lines particularly inviting, any more than of leather and of paper built or worm-eaten through and through. Whatever they were meant to convey, they didn’t conjure up visions of an agreeable stay at a luxury hotel.

  There are several Zamonian horror stories in which the hero finds himself in a similar situation - one that makes you feel like shouting, ‘No, don’t! For heaven’s sake don’t go in there, you fool! It’s a trap!’

  But then you lower the book and sit back. ‘Well, why not?’ you tell yourself. ‘Let him go in! Ten to one there’s a gigantic, hundred-legged spider lurking inside, poised to spin a cocoon around him or something. It’s bound to be entertaining. He’s the hero of a Zamonian horror story, after all. He’s got to be able to take it.’

  And so, being the hero of a Zamonian horror story, he ignores all the dictates of common sense and does go inside, to be promptly imprisoned in a cocoon by a gigantic hundred-legged spider - or something of the kind.

  Not me, though! I wouldn’t go inside. Once bitten twice shy: I’d been inured to traps by bitter experience. I wasn’t some asinine hero who risks his neck to satisfy the vulgar requirements of a lowbrow readership. No, I wouldn’t go right inside, I would only go a little way inside. Where was the harm in that, after all? Just a couple of steps and a quick peek with one eye on the doorway. I would gain an idea of the place and turn back at once if anything looked fishy.

  The fact was, dear readers, I simply couldn’t bring myself to leave without taking a look inside Shadowhall Castle. Curiosity is the most powerful incentive in the world. Why? Because it’s capable of overcoming the two most powerful disincentives in the world: common sense and fear. Curiosity accounts for why children hold their hands over candle flames, why soldiers go to war or scientists venture into the Cogitating Quicksand of Nairland. Curiosity is the reason why all the heroes of Zamonian horror stories ‘go inside’ sooner or later.

  So I went inside - but only a little way inside. Therein lay the small but important difference between me and the reckless heroes of Zamonian horror stories: I went inside but promptly came to a halt and looked around with a mixture of relief and disappointment.

  No gigantic hundred-legged spider. No Shadow King. No phantoms. No creatures of leather or paper. Just a relatively modest entrance hall, a circular chamber with a low, domed ceiling softly illuminated by the glow of the molten lava coming through the open doorway. Like the outer walls, the entrance hall was built of fossilised books. Twelve passages led off it, but that was all. No furniture or anything of that kind.

  So why had I made such a fuss about taking a look at what was probably the most unspectacular part of what was probably the most spectacular building in the catacombs? There had to be more to the castle than this.

  Why not venture a little further? Along one of those passages, perhaps? It wouldn’t be risky provided I could still see the glow of the lava. Even the faintest reflection of it would guide me back to the exit. I would keep going until the light ran out.

  So I set off down one of the twelve passages, which was long and dark and as bare as the entrance hall. Another passage branched off it after only twenty paces, as far as I could see in the steadily dwindling light. Why not take a quick look down that one and then turn back? The interior of this building might contain nothing spectacular whatsoever.

  When I reached the intersection I saw that the next passage was dimly illuminated by a candle in an ir
on candlestick, which was standing on top of a book on the ground. There was nothing else in the passage. Nothing else? Candles and books were triumphs of art and technology, signs of civilisation! A burning candle, what was more! Someone must have lit it only a short time before!

  My heart leapt. Yes, someone must be here - some animate creature must live here, whether good or evil it remained to be seen. I was well on the way to being lured ever deeper into Shadowhall Castle, propelled by my own curiosity like a puppet on a string. However, those two greatest disincentives in the world, common sense and fear, were still potent enough to prompt me to consider my future course of action.

  Somebody lived there, that was enough to be going on with. I decided to go back outside and work out a plan. Perhaps I should lay a trail, pluck a thread from my cloak and attach it to the doorpost - something like that. Think first, I told myself! Look before you leap!

  So I retraced my steps. But, when I came to the place where the passage debouched into the entrance hall, the doorway had disappeared! There was nothing there, just bare wall. I was thunderstruck. Was this really the place? If not, how could I have gone astray in such a short distance? The candle would help me to find the exit, so I went back to fetch it. I also wanted to take a look at the book, which might provide some helpful clue. But the intersection had also disappeared, like the whole of the passage with the candle in it! This was a sheer impossibility. Then I had an idea born of desperation: unlikely as it seemed, perhaps somebody was cutting me off by erecting walls at lightning speed. So I returned once more to the spot where the door to the entrance hall had been. If the wall was newly built I might be able to knock it down.

  This time, however, the doorway had staged a bewildering reappearance and so had the glow from the lava! I hurried back into the entrance hall - only to discover, to my horror, that it wasn’t the entrance hall but a far larger chamber with twice as many passages leading off it. Nor was it lit by lava, but by torches burning in rusty iron sconces that jutted from the walls like gnarled branches.

  I tottered round the empty chamber for a while, bemused and utterly at a loss. How could one whole chamber vanish and be replaced by another? Had I headed in the wrong direction? There was only one thing for it, I would have to go back. But the thought of setting foot in one of those passages filled me with dread. Would it lead me still further astray? Eventually I screwed up my courage and set off down a long corridor lit by candles standing at intervals on the floor. I walked on until I suddenly noticed something alarming out of the corner of my eye. Were the walls closing in on me? Horrified, I came to a halt. No, it was just an optical illusion. For all that, I got the impression that the passage had become somewhat narrower. I hurried on, only to be overcome once more by a claustrophobic sensation that the walls were closing in on me. If I halted the sensation disappeared; if I walked on the walls seemed to converge. One thing was certain, however: the passage was steadily narrowing. The walls had been considerably further apart at first. My claustrophobia intensified at every step. And then, at last, the mystery solved itself: the walls eventually met and the passage came to an end. Anyone walking along it fast had the illusion that the walls were closing in. It was the most deceptive dead end I had ever encountered.

  So Shadowhall Castle was a maze. A maze inside a labyrinth. Despite all the care I’d taken, I was in an even worse predicament than before. Even the walls were conspiring against me now. All I needed was for the ceiling of the passage to descend and crush me. But it never came to that: the floor descended instead.

  I thought at first that the ceiling had risen, but that too was an optical illusion. I could tell from the faint vibrations beneath my feet that the floor was sinking - all along the passage, as far as I could tell. Then, when the ceiling was some thirty feet above my head, the vibration ceased. Dozens of dark doorways yawned in the walls on either side of me.

  Feeling dizzy, I sat down on the ground. Shadowhall Castle was not only a maze. It was a maze capable of changing shape, with floors that sank and walls that appeared out of nowhere. Those who had built the castle might be long dead, but their handiwork was only too alive.

  The Hair-Raisers

  On recovering from this latest shock I struggled to my feet, groaning as if I’d been beaten black and blue, and tottered along the passage on trembling legs. Seemingly endless, it zigzagged to and fro and was flanked by countless dark doorways. The candles were few and far between.

  The claustrophobic nature of my architectural surroundings was now compounded by noises: I could hear the creak of distant hinges and a disembodied humming that might have been caused by a current of air. The interior of the castle was agreeably cool compared to the almost tropical heat of the magma cave - that much, at least, could be said in its favour. Sometimes I even thought I heard water dripping, which kindled my hopes of finding something to drink somewhere.

  But it was odd: I had an instinctive dread of entering one of those dark apertures. The gloom beyond them had a menacing quality, as if one step could send me hurtling into an abyss, so I preferred to stick to my ill-lit route.

  All at once I caught sight of another scrap of paper on the ground. I must have presented a ridiculous spectacle, a big, strong Lindworm wincing at the sight of a tiny snippet of paper like an elephant shying at a mouse, but it was simply too much of a surprise. I had no need to pick it up to satisfy myself that it was one of the ones that had guided me to the castle. A whole trail of them had been laid along the passage and ended in front of one of the doorways leading off it.

  I stared into the adjoining darkness until it almost rang in my ears, so dense and alive did it seem, but I eventually overcame my fear and walked through the dark opening. I didn’t step into a void or plunge into an abyss, I merely found myself in a pitch-black chamber. What happened then was something I’d experienced before, but in reverse order. I refer to the moment when something entered Hunk Hoggno’s abode and extinguished the candle. This time it was as if something had left the room and lit a candle instead of extinguishing it. The match and wick flared up so quickly that their light briefly dazzled me and made me blink. I heard a rustle of paper. Then I thought I saw a shadow - a colossal shadow! - flit through the doorway and disappear from view.

  My limbs were still tingling from the shock when I saw something that had a reassuring effect on me: books. The octagonal chamber’s walls were lined with shelves full of books. Not fossilised books misused as bricks, but a regular library of them. It wasn’t one of those huge, outsize libraries to which I’d become almost accustomed down here, but a modest private collection of a few hundred volumes at most. In the middle of the chamber was a leather armchair, and beside it a small iron table bearing a glass, a jug of water and a bowl of desiccated bookworms. Food and drink! I subsided into the armchair, poured myself a glass of water, gulped it down and tossed a handful of bookworms into my mouth. Mm, delicious, they were even salted! I chewed them as I looked round the room, feeling thoroughly restored. A drink of water and a handful of smoked maggots had sufficed to turn a despairing wreck into a cheerful optimist. It isn’t the brain that governs our state of mind, it’s the stomach.

  I got up and went over to the shelves, removed a book and opened it. The script was Old Zamonian, the title Screams from a Sarcophagus by Bamuel Courgette. I gave an involuntary sob.

  The very fact that I could read the script was enough to prompt that involuntary display of emotion. The gulf between me and the civilised world had been bridged once more. I could not only decipher the script, I even knew what the book was about! I had read it in my youth, and it had given me the most terrible nightmares. It was a so-called Hair-Raiser, a subsection of Zamonian horror literature.

  I took another book from the shelf. Entitled Clammy Hands, it was by Nector Nemu and was another Hair-Raiser. Nemu had been one of the most eminent writers of horror stories. I put my head on one side and ran my eyes over the titles. They included:Skeletons in the Reeds by Hallucinea Krewel; br />
  On a Gibbet at Midnight by Macabrius Sinistro;

  Frozen Phantoms by Murko de Murkholm;

  Laughter in the Cellar by Norsius Yukk;

  A Handful of Staring Eyes by the Weirdwater sisters;

  Where the Mummy Sings by Omar ben Shokka

  and so on and so forth. The authors’ pseudonyms alone left me in no doubt that these books were Hair-Raisers, one and all. I went from shelf to shelf, checking one title after another, and ended by being convinced that this was a choice collection of Hair-Raisers, probably the most comprehensive and valuable I’d ever set eyes on.

  I couldn’t help laughing suddenly.

  Because some of you, dear readers, may not be too familiar with the Hair-Raiser genre of Zamonian horror literature, permit me to indulge in a brief digression. It really won’t take long and will help you to understand my amusement.

  There was a time when people believed that Zamonian horror literature had reached the end of the line. Authors had used up every goose-flesh- and nightmare-inducing character and plot in existence, from headless phantoms to roaming Marsh Zombies to foot-eating Polterkins resident under cellar stairs. They continued to populate their books with the same old Semimummies, Gulch Ghosts and Hazelwitches until even schoolchildren ceased to be frightened of them. Sales slumped dramatically. In desperation, the publishers of Zamonian horror literature invited all the authors of the genre and one or two celebrated Bookemists to attend a conference at which measures designed to tackle the crisis would be discussed and implemented.