A Wild Ride Through the Night

  IT WAS—AT least from Gustave’s point of view—a quite extraordinary party. The way in which the forest demons amused themselves differed entirely from any form of jollity he had ever come across. Their grotesque jig ended in a small clearing. Here the piglike creatures began to root in the soft forest floor and toss truffles around, grunting, while the birdlike creatures tore each other’s feathers out with their beaks and the goblins hammered their heads against tree trunks, bellowing imprecations until their noses bled.

  A copper cauldron filled with seething wine-red liquid was suspended over a blue fire. Everyone danced around this, throwing in herbs and stinging nettles, mushrooms and truffles. The brew gave off gurgling bubbles, some of which detached themselves from the surface and floated up to the canopy of foliage overhead, where they disappeared. Several of the demons beat hollow trees or thick roots with branches and stones, creating a throbbing rhythm to which the others moved convulsively.

  The owls joined in, hooting in deep bass voices, and eerie singing issued from knotholes in the trees. The scene was provided with ever-changing illumination by multicoloured will-o’-the-wisps that meandered drunkenly through the air, lighting up and going out in time to the music. A duck-footed gnome with a face like an ecstatic pig cavorted past, hitting himself on the head with a stone. Heavy with the scent of smouldering herbs, swathes of dense green smoke drifted among the revellers. It made Gustave dizzy just to watch.

  ‘Here, have some!’ called a hunchbacked frog, holding out a beaker filled with the foaming red brew. Gustave thanked him politely and took a reluctant sip. It didn’t taste of much—a hint of iron and tomatoes, perhaps—but it instantly went to his head.

  ‘Mm, delicious,’ he lied, and downed half the contents of the beaker. His tongue seemed to absorb the liquid like a sponge and convey it straight to his brain. The one-legged bird that had done most of the talking hopped over to him and stood there, swaying.

  ‘So you’ve passed your test with flying colours,’ the feathered gnome said approvingly. ‘You’ve made yourself conspicuous in a forest full of spirits and you’re still alive! No one has ever managed that before. Congratulations!’ It raised a beaker of the red brew with its right wing and toasted Gustave, who took another big swig for courtesy’s sake.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, belching faintly. ‘It was easy enough, though.’

  ‘What’s your next test?’ the bird enquired, slurring the words. Gustave could tell from the creature’s unfocused eyes and huge, dilated pupils that it was already very drunk. ‘A ride on a comet, or something of that order?’

  ‘No,’ Gustave replied, ‘I have to guess the names of six giants.’ He couldn’t help laughing, not only because the task sounded so absurd, but because the red beverage was inducing such a state of hilarity that almost everything seemed laughable to him, even the prospect of tackling six giants.

  ‘You’re a courageous young man,’ burbled the bird. ‘Anyone making for the Plain of the Terrible Titans has to pass through the Valley of the Monsters. Your sword’ll come in handy. Know how to use the thing?’

  ‘I killed a dragon with it.’

  ‘I take my hat off to you,’ the bird exclaimed, and turned to its companions. ‘Did you hear that?’ it squawked above the din. ‘This youngster here has killed a genuine dragon.’

  But the other forest demons, who were growing more and more frenzied, had lost interest in them. They pranced around, twitching and bellowing, waved their arms in the air, or curled up on the ground, groaning, and tore out tufts of grass. Oddly enough, Gustave felt a strong temptation to follow their example.

  ‘A dragon, eh?’ the one-legged bird went on. It draped a long wing round Gustave’s shoulders and gazed deep into his eyes. ‘Did you also see some, er … naked damsels?’

  Gustave felt a cold stab in the heart.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘I did.’

  ‘Whee …’ the bird trilled admiringly. It rolled its bloodshot eyes and shook its wing as if to convey that it had burnt it on something hot.

  ‘But tell me,’ said Gustave, to change the subject, ‘what was all that about the Valley of the Monsters and the Plain of the Terrible Titans? It sounds as if you know how to get there.’

  ‘You’re already on the way!’ The bird grinned and raised its beaker again.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Gustave tried to say, but his tongue had almost gone on strike. The bird doubled, trebled and quadrupled under his bleary gaze, assuming a variety of colours as it did so: first pink, then red, then purple.

  ‘I meant what I said: You’re already on the way!’ croaked the bird’s metallic voice. A rattling sound made itself heard. Gustave wondered why it sounded familiar. Of course! It was the sound of carriage wheels turning briskly, mingled with the crunch of gravel and the thud of baggage landing on the roof.

  Baggage? On what sort of roof? Here in the forest? There! A trumpet! No, a huntsman’s horn. More like it, but still wrong. Of course, it was a ship’s foghorn! Fog? A ship? In the Forest of Evil Spirits? Was he dreaming? Then came a whistling sound. No, that was no bird, it was a stationmaster’s whistle.

  ‘Can you hear it too?’ asked Gustave, afraid he might be losing his mind. His speech, too, was slurred.

  The bird grinned again.

  ‘No, but I know what you mean. It’s the Wanderlust Wine that does it—look.’ The bird held out its beaker, and Gustave felt as if he were gazing into a whirlpool of blood. Contrary to every law of nature, the dark red liquid was rotating in a foaming spiral, the very sight of which gave him vertigo.

  ‘Wanderlust Wine?’ he repeated.

  ‘Yes,’ the bird confided in an undertone. ‘Life is a journey! Perilous, unpredictable and full of surprises, even if you spend it sitting in an armchair without ever budging from the spot.’ The creature emitted a hoarse laugh. ‘Yes, that’s Wanderlust Wine for you,’ it croaked. ‘Specially brewed for you at Death’s expense.’

  ‘What!’ Gustave cried. ‘You mean you’re servants of Death?’

  The bird raised its beaker in salute. A few other forest demons followed suit. ‘Aren’t we all?’ they chorused.

  ‘But you’re immortal, surely?’ said Gustave.

  ‘So what?’ The bird grinned. ‘There’s no reason why we shouldn’t do Death an occasional favour.’

  Gustave felt dizzy again. Yellow and green will-o’-the-wisps darted around in front of his nose, tying themselves in such intricate knots that they made him squint. He shut his eyes and instantly felt better. Whoops! He experienced a jolt of the kind you feel on board a train as it pulls out of the station.

  A cool breeze fanned his face, as if he were sitting on the coachman’s seat of a speeding carriage-and-four. Next he was engulfed by the metallic rumble and roar of a locomotive thundering through a tunnel at full steam ahead. Then, suddenly, he seemed to be on the deck of a ship with wind swirling about him and canvas flapping.

  He still didn’t dare to open his eyes; on the contrary, he kept them tightly shut and relied on his other senses. It was as though the odours of exotic lands were wafting past his nostrils: cinnamon, nutmeg, coriander, lemon grass, the scents of the jungle, the fragrance of orchids. He heard people speaking in different tongues, oriental music, high-pitched, singsong voices, a glockenspiel, the rhythmical thudding of drums, hands clapping, feet pounding, and—once more—wheels rattling over cobblestones, locomotives hissing, sailcloth flapping, hoofs clattering.

  He opened his eyes at last.

  The forest had vanished, and with it the inebriated bird and its frightful companions. Gustave was in the midst of a raging inferno of light and darkness. Day followed night at one-second intervals, as if the earth were rotating a thousand times faster than usual. Unfolding beneath him at breakneck speed were asphalted high-ways, broad avenues, sandy tracks, narrow paths. Mountains and whole landscapes sped past—steppes, deserts, rippling cornfields— as if some immense hand were towing him round the planet upside down. Clouds gathered and d
ispersed at an incredible rate. Time seemed to stand still inside Gustave while racing past him more wildly than ever. He felt sick and giddy. Unable to endure such a wealth of visual impressions, he shut his eyes again. A sudden jolt, a squeal of metal on metal, someone said ‘Whoa!’, a siren blared, anchor chains rattled, and he came to an abrupt halt. Total silence fell.

  GUSTAVE OPENED HIS eyes. He was on a rocky eminence overlooking a gloomy valley. Grey weeds sprouted among the barren stones, blighted trees brooded sadly on granite crags, thick layers of cloud overarched the entire landscape like a shroud. The sun had almost set, and shadows were beginning to steal across the valley.

  ‘My goodness,’ Gustave exclaimed. ‘Amazing, what Wanderlust Wine does to you!’ He emitted an involuntary burp.

  ‘I beg your pardon!’ said a voice from beneath him.

  Looking down, he found that he was sitting astride Pancho Sansa, his talking horse. ‘How did you get here?’ he asked in amazement.

  ‘“How did you get here?”’ Pancho mimicked resentfully. ‘Is that all you can think of to say? How about: “Lord, am I glad you’re still alive!” or “How on earth did you manage to extricate yourself?” or something of the kind? Pah!’ He gave an offended snort.

  Gustave felt ashamed. Of course he was genuinely glad to see Pancho unscathed after that frightful episode in the forest. He groped for the right words.

  ‘Lord, am I glad you’re still alive!’ he said eventually and rather unoriginally. ‘How on earth did you manage to extricate yourself?’ He forced a smile and gave the horse’s neck a clumsy pat.

  ‘Stop that!’ Still disgruntled, Pancho shook his hand off.

  ‘Now look here!’ said Gustave. ‘If anyone’s entitled to play the injured party, I reckon it’s me. You lured me into the forest and abandoned me to those evil spirits, don’t you remember? You even apologised to me.’

  Pancho hung his head and sheepishly scuffed the ground with one hoof. At length he turned his head and gazed at Gustave with big, faithful eyes.

  ‘Will you forgive me?’ he said in a low voice.

  No response. Pancho whinnied in embarrassment.

  ‘All right,’ Gustave said eventually. ‘I forgive you. But now, tell me how you escaped.’

  ‘No idea,’ Pancho blurted out. ‘It was like some terrible nightmare. I sank in deeper and deeper, and the ground closed over me. I’m going to suffocate, I thought, but I found I could breathe in spite of all the mud and stones around me. Then, quite suddenly, I felt as if I’d been fired from a cannon. Whoosh! I shot up through the darkness, right through the ground, like a shaft of lightning up a drainpipe. Higher and higher I went, and all at once the darkness lifted: my head emerged from the ground, followed by my neck and the whole of my body. Before I knew it, I was back on terra firma. The next thing that happened was, I noticed you sitting astride me once more.’

  ‘Strange things happen in the forest,’ mused Gustave.

  ‘We aren’t in the forest any longer,’ Pancho replied darkly. ‘This is the Valley of the Monsters, the land of eternal twilight. I’ve heard of the place. It’s never really daytime here. Twilight falls, then night, then twilight again, then night. Day refuses to illuminate this part of the world, so they say. The sun passes by, but only to set.’

  Peering closely at the valley, Gustave made out a number of weird shapes. They seemed to be moving, but at this distance and in the fading light he couldn’t tell what they were.

  ‘Those are monsters,’ the horse whispered unasked. ‘The most monstrous monsters in existence.’

  ‘The most monstrous are just the kind I’m looking for,’ said Gustave, and he spurred Pancho down the hill and into the gloomy valley.

  THE DESCENT TOOK quite a while because Pancho had to proceed slowly, selecting his footholds with care for fear of stumbling. Meanwhile, the moon had risen and was peeping through the clouds from time to time. Grey shapes of unnatural conformation, some with glowing eyes, would suddenly emerge from the darkness when its silvery light fell on them. They squeaked or grunted and were mercifully swallowed up once more by the gloom. Gustave occasionally mistook something for a boulder or a fallen tree, only to see it stirring silently. Long, thin creatures equipped with far too many legs pattered across his route and vanished into the nocturnal shadows.

  Gustave more than once heard the rustle of leathery wings circling not far above his head. The darkness was alive with whispers and crackles, high-pitched whistles and distant howls.

  ‘If we’re out of luck,’ murmured Pancho, his voice filled with apprehension, ‘we may run into the Most Monstrous of All Monsters without realising it. It could be looming over us at this very moment, massive as a mountain, with tentacles instead of arms and one huge eye capable of seeing in the dark. You see those tall trees on either side of us? They may not be trees at all—they may be legs!’

  ‘Do you mind keeping your flights of fancy to yourself?’ Gustave protested. ‘If there are any monsters lurking in the darkness, I’d like to be able to hear them coming before they attack us.’

  At that moment the clouds parted, and they saw that they had for some time been trotting through a vast expanse of ruins. Massive blocks of stone were all that remained of tall buildings that had collapsed long ago, leaving only vestiges of their walls standing. The route was barred by fallen stones, and Pancho had to pick his way among them with care.

  Seen by the moon’s pale light, the ruins looked like ice floes wedged together. Perched on top of them were flocks of owls whose big, round eyes reflected the cold light streaming down from the cosmos.

  ‘The result of an earthquake, probably,’ said Gustave.

  ‘Monsters is my bet,’ was Pancho’s awestruck response.

  ‘Are you wondering what horrific creature wrecked this place?’ The voice that rang out over the dismal landscape was deep, dark and mournful. It sounded as if it were issuing from a dungeon.

  Universal panic ensued. Gustave wrenched at the reins and fumbled with his lance, Pancho reared up on his hind legs and wheeled on the spot as though encircled by rats. At that moment a pallid moonbeam pierced the overcast and shone straight down on a monster leaning against a ruined wall only a few yards away. ‘It was me,’ it said.

  The monster had a head like a dragon’s skull. Its arms, which were composed of gnarled wood, ended in flexible, plantlike tentacles. The rest of it was mercifully obscured by the wall it was leaning against. More tentacles wriggling through cracks between the stones seemed to suggest that the ruined masonry concealed still more horrific portions of its anatomy.

  ‘Well,’ the monster boomed, ‘are you paying the Valley of the Monsters a visit?’

  A big wolf spider crawled out of its right eye socket and went scuttling down the wall.

  ‘Er, yes,’ Gustave answered quickly. ‘And a very good evening to you.’

  ‘You’re only passing through, I trust, not planning to spend a vacation here. Aren’t they awful, these desolate surroundings? These dismal forms of plant life that proliferate everywhere? These depressing climatic conditions? Living here is like stagnating under a steamed-up cheese cover.’ The bony skull heaved a deep sigh.

  Gustave dismounted. The monster seemed civilised despite its frightful appearance, so he signalled his peaceful intentions by replacing his lance in its sheath and leaving his helmet behind with Pancho. So as to be prepared for certain eventualities, however, he kept his iron skullcap on and retained his swordbelt. With one sweaty hand gripping the hilt of his sword, he clambered over the tilted, uneven blocks of stone that lay between him and the monster.

  The monster’s chalk-white head peered over the wall like some puppet from a Punch-and-Judy show designed for audiences with exceptionally strong nerves. Gustave strode up to it, took his courage in both hands, and struck a knightly pose.

  ‘Are you the Most Monstrous of All Monsters?’ he asked firmly.

  Some crunching, sucking noises emanated from the shadows at the foot of the wall
. A few tentacles withdrew and reappeared through cracks elsewhere. The huge death’s-head rose and fell in an unnatural way, like a carnival mask bobbing on the end of a stick. ‘The Most Monstrous of All Monsters?’ repeated the monster. ‘Yes, I suppose I am …’ It paused for effect before continuing: ‘Or used to be, long, long ago …’

  It paused again, seemingly afraid to utter the next words. ‘But then another monster came along. Well, it had always been there in reality, but the longer it existed the more monstrous it became. No, the most I am is the Second Most Monstrous of All Monsters. My name is Anxiety.’ The monster bowed its head and followed up its statement with another deep sigh like the wheezing of a decrepit pair of bellows.

  ‘Never fear,’ it went on without waiting for a response, ‘I won’t accuse you of being tactless for asking such a direct question. Milk can turn sour at the very sight of me, I know. I nearly fainted once, when I caught sight of my reflection in a pool of water—and I was considerably more attractive then than I am now.’

  The monster groaned at the recollection. ‘You’re bound to be wondering what’s so awful about anxiety, right?’

  ‘Er, yes,’ said Gustave. Although it wasn’t true (he was far too agitated to wonder about anything), he thought it wisest to agree with the monster on principle.

  ‘People take me for granted—that’s one of my most disastrous characteristics.’ The monster gave a hollow laugh. Stone grated on stone as if the creature were bracing itself against the wall with all its might.

  ‘Look around you and see how effective I’ve been. I’ve ravaged this place for many years—ravaged it good and proper. I devour men, women and children regardless of their social class and personal character. I’m ruthless and relentless, cold-blooded and implacable. In short, I’m a servant of Death—one of the best, what’s more.’

  Gustave pricked up his ears. ‘You’re a servant of Death?’