The City of Dreaming Books

  ‘Excellent!’ I said, smacking my lips. I took another sip - a bigger one.

  ‘Forgive me if I don’t join you,’ said Homuncolossus, ‘but I seldom touch alcohol. The fact is, I’ve been a trifle tipsy ever since that bottle of Comet Wine started flowing through my veins. Even another two or three glasses might send me into a state fit only for the company of Bookhunters.’

  ‘A state of bloodlust, you mean?’ I quipped inanely, already emboldened by the few drops of wine I’d drunk.

  ‘That’s one way of putting it. Your health!’

  ‘Thank you.’ I took another sip and relaxed still more. ‘How does one get hold of wine down here?’ I asked.

  ‘You can obtain anything in the catacombs if you know how. This wine comes from Rongkong Koma’s personal cellar.’

  I nearly choked. ‘The Bookhunter? You know his hideaway?’

  ‘Of course. I pay his cave a visit now and then. I turn the place upside down, steal a few books and some wine, bend his iron arrows, block up his source of drinking water and so on. It drives him crazy.’

  ‘Why have you spared his life?’

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps because Smyke was so insistent on my killing him. If Smyke is afraid of him, I told myself, he may come in handy some day.’

  ‘Rongkong Koma cut off Regenschein’s head,’ I said.

  Homuncolossus sprang to his feet. I recoiled at the sudden movement.

  ‘Koma killed Regenschein?’ His voice reverberated round the dining hall, so loudly that the Animatomes scuttled off and hid beneath the other tables.

  ‘No, he cut off his head when he was already dead. Regenschein killed himself. He simply stopped living.’

  ‘He did that?’ Homuncolossus sat down again.

  ‘Yes. It was the most remarkable feat of will-power I’ve ever witnessed.’ Homuncolossus brooded in silence for a while. ‘What happened? How did Rongkong Koma get into the Leather Grotto?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. He raided it with a lot of other Bookhunters. They slaughtered some of the Booklings and drove the rest away. The Leather Grotto is now in their hands, I’m afraid.’

  Homuncolossus fidgeted impatiently. ‘That’s bad,’ he said. ‘The Leather Grotto was one of the last bastions of civilisation in the catacombs. The Booklings took good care of it.’

  ‘I know. You guided me to them. Why?’

  ‘I’ve been observing them for a long time. They’re the only folk in the catacombs who don’t do business with the Bookhunters. I’m surprised the Bookhunters found the Leather Grotto. Still, I suppose it had to happen one day.’

  ‘What drew your attention to me, of all people?’ I enquired.

  Homuncolossus laughed. ‘I’m surprised you ask. You’ve been behaving like a bull in a china shop ever since you entered the catacombs. I was on one of my reconnaissance trips when you fell into Goldenbeard’s clumsy trap and brought down half the labyrinth with you. They must have heard it up in Bookholm.’

  I hung my head.

  ‘Then you landed with a crash in the rubbish dump and woke up all its inhabitants including that megaworm. I’ve been watching you ever since you crawled out of Unholm. I thought you were done for when the Spinxxxx captured you, but then Hoggno rescued you.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have?’

  ‘Probably not. I didn’t find you sufficiently interesting at the time.’

  ‘So why did you save me from Hoggno?’

  ‘I’d been eavesdropping on your conversation. You’d suddenly gone up in my estimation.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘What is this, an interrogation?’

  ‘Forgive me.’

  ‘The next time I heard you I was on patrol near Shadowhall. It was that diabolical cry you gave on the Rusty Gnomes’ Bookway. Everyone in the catacombs must have heard it. That’s how I knew you were in trouble again.’

  I felt thoroughly ashamed. From his point of view, I really had behaved like a total idiot since entering the catacombs.

  ‘May I ask you a question for a change?’ he demanded.

  I nodded.

  ‘What brought you to Bookholm?’

  I felt in my pockets for the manuscript and put it on the table. I had really wanted to save it for a more dramatic moment. ‘This,’ I said.

  ‘I thought as much,’ said Homuncolossus.

  ‘You knew I had it on me?’

  ‘I searched you while you were asleep, just before you encountered the Booklings.’

  ‘I remember. I dreamt of you that time.’

  ‘No wonder.’ He grinned. ‘I’d never been so close to you before. You must have been able to smell me.’

  ‘Did you really write this?’ I asked. ‘If so, you’re the greatest writer of all time.’

  ‘No,’ said Homuncolossus. ‘It was written by someone I ceased to be a long time ago.’

  ‘But I left Lindworm Castle in search of the person who could write like this.’

  ‘That’s really sad, my friend,’ said Homuncolossus. ‘You set off on a long and perilous journey, only to find that the person you sought has long been dead.’

  On that note he got up from the table and left the room. The Animatomes gathered at my feet, squeaking expectantly. With a sigh, I tossed them the remains of my meal and proceeded to finish off the delicious wine. I had forgotten to tell Homuncolossus about my splendid plan. My courage had simply failed me.

  The Inebriated Gorilla

  I awoke the next day with a curious buzzing in my head. The Aeolian music, the rising and falling walls, the scurrying Animatomes - all these things were starting to grate on my nerves. My one desire was to get away from this godforsaken castle and its lord and master, a demented phantom who had probably left his wits behind with his former existence. But I, too, seemed to have checked my brain on entering Shadowhall Castle. I was beginning to develop an affection for this paper monster, this serial murderer and universally anathematised ghost. I was becoming inured to self-propelled walls, Weeping Shadows and scurrying Animatomes! It was high time for me to leave.

  I no longer wandered aimlessly through the castle’s halls and chambers but deliberately looked for an exit, tried to memorise the rooms’ special features, the number of tables and chairs, the location of the fireplaces, the nature of the ceilings, the height of the doors. I spent the entire day roaming around to no avail, only to totter back to the dining hall, where Homuncolossus and my supper were awaiting me.

  Tonight, in addition to the usual eating utensils, the table was piled high with books. The candle that reposed on them lit up the Shadow King’s paper mask more brightly than usual. There was no wine this time; I could tell from the two empty bottles at my host’s feet that he had already polished it off.

  ‘You’re late,’ he said thickly. He was drunk and in a sombre, possibly even dangerous mood.

  ‘I’ve been looking for something,’ I replied.

  ‘I know. You didn’t find it, though.’ He gave an unpleasant laugh.

  ‘Very funny,’ I said, tucking into my bowl of insipid underworld vegetables.

  There was a long silence broken only by the rustling sound of the Animatomes scurrying around beneath the table. At length Homuncolossus asked, ‘Do you believe that some literature lives on for ever?’

  I didn’t have to think for long. ‘Yes, of course,’ I replied with my mouth full.

  ‘Yes, of course!’ Homuncolossus mimicked. He glared at me. ‘Well, I don’t!’ he said, taking a book from the table.

  ‘Does this look eternal?’ He hurled it into the air. Even before it reached the top of its trajectory the pages fell apart, disintegrated into fragments as they came fluttering down and eventually dissolved into a fine dust that sank slowly to the floor. Only the cover landed intact, but the impact smashed it to pieces. The few maggots that crawled out of the debris were promptly devoured by the Animatomes, which converged from all directions.

  ‘And that was a classic,’ Homuncolossus said with a laugh. ‘The story of
Vaddi Flopperdice by Asdrel Chickens.’

  He had never behaved as strangely before. The restless way he shuffled around on his chair reminded me of some animal, I couldn’t think which.

  ‘No, literature isn’t eternal,’ he cried. ‘It’s a thing of the moment. Even if you made books with pages of steel and diamond letters, they would some day crash into the sun and melt, together with our planet. Nothing is eternal, least of all in art. It doesn’t matter how long an author’s work continues to glimmer after his death. What matters is how brightly it burns while he’s still alive.’

  ‘That could be the motto of a successful novelist,’ I put in. ‘An author whose sole concern is how much money he can earn during his lifetime.’

  ‘I’m not talking about material success,’ said Homuncolossus. ‘It doesn’t matter how well or how badly a book sells or how many people take notice of an author. That’s unimportant - it’s dependent on far too many coincidences and injustices to be a valid criterion. What matters is how brightly the Orm burns inside you while you’re writing.’

  ‘You believe in the Orm?’ I hazarded.

  ‘I believe in nothing whatsoever,’ he said darkly. ‘I know the Orm exists, that’s all.’

  I felt in my pocket. ‘When you wrote this,’ I said, producing the manuscript and holding it up, ‘the Orm must have been burning inside you like a bonfire. It’s the most immaculate piece of writing I’ve ever read. It is eternal.’

  The Shadow King leant towards me. So near that I could smell his musty breath, he gazed at me with infinite sadness and held his hand over the candle flame. The tip of his forefinger turned black and started to sizzle.

  ‘You’ve no idea how quickly something can be over,’ he whispered. Tiny flames began to dance on his fingertip and a tendril of smoke spiralled into the air.

  I seized my glass of water and tipped it over his hand. The flames expired with a hiss.

  Homuncolossus sprang to his feet as if about to pounce on me, but he only gave me a menacing glare. Then he began to laugh. It was a louder and more terrible laugh than he had ever uttered before. Finally, to my utter astonishment, he went down on all fours and scampered out of the room like a gorilla, albeit at a rate that would have made any gorilla’s fur stand on end.

  Thirst

  This much was certain: I was at the mercy of the most dangerous and demented creature in the catacombs of Bookholm. Homuncolossus, the Shadow King, Mephistas, Keron Kenken, or whatever he was called, had lost his mind, either when transmogrified by Smyke or in the course of his exile. I was now convinced that he intended to keep me a prisoner here for ever. Why? So that I could share his sufferings in lieu of his real tormentors.

  I roamed the passages in despair. He hadn’t shown his face for several days and I had forgotten at some stage to go on counting them. Although I could happily have dispensed with the company of the Shadow King as I had last seen him, the alarming aspect of the situation was that he had stopped providing me with food and drink. Deprivation of solid food was tolerable for a certain length of time, but I would die of thirst unless I got something to drink before long.

  Was it a test? A punishment? Or had he gone off on one of his excursions through the catacombs and fallen prey to the Bookhunters? Anything was possible. Perhaps it was just a crazy whim of his to leave me to die. I cursed myself for not having had the courage to tell him of my plan in good time.

  Meanwhile, I hardly dared leave the dining hall for fear of missing the moment of his return - if it ever came. I was finding it increasingly difficult to think. If someone is deprived of food and drink for a considerable period, his cerebral activity soon becomes reduced to devising succulent recipes and envisioning thirst-quenching beverages.

  I had even reached the stage where I considered breaking my truce with the Animatomes. The little creatures continued to scurry around between my feet, as before. They had become more and more trusting, and they made a lively, healthy impression which suggested that, unlike me, they were being amply supplied with food and drink - either that, or they knew where to forage for themselves. They aroused my envy, then my mounting anger. In the end my feelings for them became transmuted into sheer hatred. The useless, well-fed creatures swarmed all over the castle, filling almost every room with their squeaks and rustles.

  Of leather and of paper built, worm-eaten through and through . . .

  Those lines from Colophonius Regenschein’s poem came back to me. Had he really found his way into Shadowhall Castle? How else could he have known about the Animatomes? If he had, he must also have found his way out of this labyrinth. Perhaps it was possible after all.

  I had to act soon if I didn’t want to die of thirst while waiting in vain for the Shadow King’s return, but I was now too weak to leave the dining hall and look for an exit. That being so, I decided to hunt, kill and devour an Animatome and drink its blood.

  I settled on a particularly plump, leather-bound volume that was slowly crawling past me. Throbbing within it must be juicy organs suffused with black fluid. My mouth watered at the very thought of tearing that unwitting little creature to pieces. I shook off my lethargy, went down on all fours and proceeded to crawl towards my prey.

  As though they instinctively sensed what was in the wind, the other Animatomes took fright. They scattered in all directions, rustling and squeaking.

  I focused my gaze on the fat volume and prepared to pounce on it from a crouching position.

  ‘Would you care for a glass of Gargyllian Bollogg’s Skull with your Animatome?’ a familiar voice enquired. ‘Or would you, in your dehydrated condition, prefer some ice-cold spring water?’

  I looked up. The Shadow King was seated in his customary place, smiling at me. On the table in front of him were an opened bottle of wine, a jug of water, two glasses and a whole smoked ham on a platter.

  I stared at him stupidly for several seconds.

  ‘Where have you been?’ I croaked, getting to my feet.

  ‘In the Leather Grotto,’ he replied. ‘I went there to gain an idea of the current situation.’

  He poured me a glass of water. I staggered over to him and gulped it down.

  ‘It was awful to see that library looted,’ he said sadly. ‘The Bookhunters have even stripped the leather off the walls.’

  I sat down and stared avidly at the ham, which had a big knife protruding from it.

  ‘Help yourself,’ said Homuncolossus. ‘I filched it from the Bookhunters.’

  I carved myself a thick slice and started to eat.

  ‘Did you do anything to them?’ I asked with my mouth full.

  ‘No, there were too many. However, I got the impression that most of them will soon be leaving the Grotto. There’s hardly anything left to loot.’

  ‘Did you see any Booklings?’

  ‘Not a single one. They must have retreated into the depths of the catacombs. It wouldn’t surprise me if they never showed their faces again. They’re sensitive little fellows - experts at concealment, too.’

  I was beginning to feel more like my old self. Homuncolossus looked calm and relaxed. I wasn’t going to miss a second opportunity to submit my plan.

  ‘Listen,’ I said, ‘I’ve had an idea - a way of getting us both out of the catacombs.’

  ‘Thirst must have desiccated your brain,’ said Homuncolossus. ‘Better replenish your reservoirs before you start thinking again.’

  ‘I’ve never been more clear-headed. The idea isn’t even mine.’

  ‘Whose is it, then?’

  ‘Colophonius Regenschein’s.’

  ‘Regenschein is dead, my friend. You’re delirious.’

  ‘No one who writes a good book is really dead. I got the idea from The Catacombs of Bookholm.’

  ‘Regenschein wrote a book about the catacombs?’

  ‘A very good one, too. Among other things, it describes how he built a sort of, er, compound on his large estate in Bookholm.’

  ‘What kind of compound?’


  ‘A compound for the Shadow King.’

  ‘What? For me?’

  ‘Yes. It was to be your new home on the surface in the event that he captured you. Not a prison, don’t get me wrong! It reproduced conditions in the catacombs. No windows and lots of old books. You could survive in it just as well as you do down here.’

  Homuncolossus gave me a lingering look.

  ‘He actually had this thing built?’

  ‘So it says in his book.’

  A longish silence ensued. I cut myself another slice of ham.

  Homuncolossus cleared his throat.

  ‘And you’d come to feed me once a day, the way I feed you?’

  ‘Well, yes - I can imagine some such arrangement.’

  ‘You can, can you? How many rooms does it have, this compound of yours?’

  ‘It isn’t my compound. I’ve no idea how many. Several, certainly.’

  ‘Several, eh? Well, well! And the public could come to see me there? For a small charge, I mean? Hey, we could go fifty-fifty!’

  ‘That wasn’t the intention. You were to-’

  ‘No, no, it’s a fantastic idea! After all, I’d have to earn my keep. I could do a bit of scribbling for the spectators on demand, like those poor devils in the Graveyard of Forgotten Writers. Or I could pull frightful faces for the children. We’ll hang up a sign outside: “Visit the paper monster! See the terrible Homuncolossus being fed! ” I could set fire to myself, then you could put me out. We’d naturally have to give Pfistomel Smyke a piece of the action. He created me, after all.’

  The conversation was taking an alarming turn. Homuncolossus put the wine bottle to his paper lips and drained it in one, then rose to his feet. The Animatomes fled in all directions as if warned by instinct of what was to come.

  ‘A compound?’ Homuncolossus bellowed. He gave the table such a thump with his fist, the top cracked like crazy paving.

  Then he hurled the wine bottle into a dark corner, smashing it. ‘I’m the master of Shadowhall!’ he yelled. ‘I rule the whole labyrinth! The catacombs of Bookholm are under my control! I can go wherever I please in my immense domain! I’m free! Free to live and to kill! Freer than any other living creature!’