The City of Dreaming Books (52 page)

I
was still standing on the spot where the shadow had passed through me, trying to collect my thoughts and analyse my feelings like someone abruptly roused from a violent nightmare.

Was that really the Shadow King? If so, he bore no relation to all the stories about him. He hadn’t impressed me as a creature that could harm someone, still less cut off Hunk Hoggno’s head or strike terror into a Harpyr. Or had that been only one of many forms he could assume? What were those curious images and unintelligible ideas he had sluiced through my brain and borne away with him? I couldn’t remember a thing about them.

I hurried in pursuit, fervently hoping that he hadn’t vanished into Shadowhall’s labyrinthine recesses. Fortunately, there was the trail of tears he had left behind. It led along the passage, across a big, dark, empty chamber, into a narrow, torchlit corridor, and finally up a flight of stairs. They were the first stairs I’d seen in Shadowhall. I certainly hadn’t been in this part of the castle before.

The stairs ended in a lofty passage lit by candles in sconces on one side of it. On the other side were some tall, narrow windows with nothing visible beyond them but a dark void. Shadowhall’s weird, persistent music continued to whisper in my ears. I hurried on, faithfully following the trail of moisture, which now led through a big archway filled with dancing light. I could once more hear the stertorous breathing, the sobs and whispering voices, but they now seemed to issue from more than one throat. Beyond the archway I found myself looking down into a torchlit chamber more spacious than any I had seen hitherto. It was laid out like an amphitheatre. I was standing at its highest point, looking down over the tiers of seats at a large stage in the centre. And that, dear readers, was where I saw a spectacle that genuinely moved me to tears.

Hundreds of the shadowy creatures were restlessly passing through each other, whispering and sobbing. I saw them melt and merge, glide through each other and draw apart. Others came in through the numerous entrances round about and descended the steps to mingle with the throng on the stage. Here in the amphitheatre the music of Shadowhall Castle had greatly increased in volume. It sounded like a discordant funeral march accompanied by a chorus of sighs and sobs, and the weeping shadows seemed to be dancing to it.

Tears welled up in my eyes. I too began to weep, strangely moved by this ineffably sad and fantastic scene - until another wave of thoughts and images surged through me quite as suddenly and surprisingly as in the dining room. One of the shadowy creatures, which had entered behind my back, had simply passed straight through me. It now glided down the steps to join its own kind on the stage. This was too much. I turned and fled back through the gateway.

I continued to weep outside in the passage, why and for how long I’ve no idea, but my tears had a soothing and reassuring effect. When they finally ceased to flow I felt strong enough to return to the amphitheatre - even, perhaps, to mingle with the dancing shadows and fathom this latest addition to the castle’s mysteries.

When I turned round, however, the gateway was shut - bricked up by a wall of fossilised books that had silently erected itself behind me. The music, too, had fallen silent as though walled up inside. I strained my ears but could hear nothing, not a sound. The foregoing episode might never have occurred. And to be honest, dear readers, I wished it hadn’t, because my poor brain was now beset by a host of unanswered questions.

There was a sudden rustle behind me. I spun round, and this time I really did see something: a dark, rectangular object disappearing into one of the passages that led off my own. Being now in the right frame of mind to wrest every last secret from this accursed place, I boldly dashed in pursuit.

The passage was only dimly lit by a few isolated candles, so I was never able to get a really clear view of the little object zigzagging ahead of me from one pool of shadow to the next.

We rounded numerous corners, turned left and right, raced up one flight of stairs and down another, but I remained hot on the diminutive creature’s heels. We sped up a spiral staircase that stopped short at a rusty iron grating. The shadowy little thing slipped through it with ease; I could only stand there cursing.

I was about to turn back when the grating creaked open and I continued to climb. The staircase spiralled upwards for a couple more turns and came out in a large room.

It reminded me of the Hair-Raiser library: the same octagonal shape, the walls lined with bookcases, the armchair, the central table with the candlestick on it - for a moment I thought I’d found my way back there.

But there was something different about the place. Perhaps I missed the hallucinogenic perfume, or perhaps the books were differently arranged. This certainly wasn’t the same library and I couldn’t see the little creature anywhere.

The books were real enough, though, and I thought they might assist me in some way. I went over to one of the shelves, took out an ancient leather-bound tome and opened it.

And froze.

In the central margin between the pages was a single, blinking eye. The book was staring at me in alarm, just like the Animatome Al had shown me in the Leather Grotto. My reaction was just as horrified as it had been then: I dropped it.

It hit the floor with a crash and rustled indignantly. Then half a dozen little legs sprouted from the fore-edge and bore it away. It scuttled off and made straight for the opposite wall, where it crawled up the shelves and disappeared into a crack between two big leather-bound volumes.

I turned on the spot. There were rustles all round me, and the backs of one or two books began to move almost imperceptibly. No, these were no Hair-Raisers, even if their behaviour was enough to make a person’s hair stand on end. This whole library was alive! All those little rectangular shadows were books, of course. Live books,
Animatomes
!

Were Animatomes something in the nature of rats? Were they Shadowhall Castle’s vermin? Had they originated in the Bookemists’ laboratories and found their way here via the rubbish dump of Unholm? Had they actually bred here? A fascinating notion: books capable of reproducing themselves and banding together into a library on their own initiative. I wondered what the little creatures found to eat within these barren walls, but then, I had probably explored only a small proportion of the castle.

I scanned the room again. If all these books were really Animatomes, the collection must be worth a fortune. I took another volume from a shelf and opened it. The interior resembled a mouthful of needle-sharp teeth. I was still staring at the book in amazement when it emitted a menacing snarl and bit my paw. I uttered a yell - ‘Ouch! That hurts!’ - but the confounded thing wouldn’t let go. Still snarling, it sank its teeth yet deeper in my bleeding paw. I yelled again, this time with rage, and pounded the cover with my other fist. At last it relaxed its grip and fell to the floor. It sprouted eight little legs and scuttled off into a corner, whence it growled at me viciously.

The shelves around me were stirring. Leather squeaked against leather, paper rustled and crackled, little piping voices could be heard. The Animatomes were waking up, roused by their colleague’s growls or the scent of my blood. For after that vicious bite, dear readers, I felt certain that these were not only Animatomes but Hazardous Books as well - a savage, bloodthirsty subspecies of the domesticated Animatomes in the Leather Grotto. And I could guess what they fed on. It was time to get out of there fast!

I took a couple of swift steps towards the head of the stairs that had brought me to the library, but there was nothing there, just a wall.

I looked around, trying to estimate my chances. How many books were there? A few hundred? All right, they weren’t Spinxxxxes or Harpyrs, they were vermin, nothing more. Vermin are cowardly. If I disposed of a few of them quickly enough the rest would come to heel. I was a dinosaur, after all. I possessed claws and teeth. Having survived Unholm’s rubbish dump and a ride on the Rusty Gnomes’ Bookway, I should be able to deal with a few shelves of mutated books.

I heard a rumble beneath me and the floor began to vibrate. Then it descended, taking me with it. Well, that was fine with me. Perhaps this unexpected development would put some distance between me and the Animatomes.

But all that happened was that the walls grew. The further the floor descended, the more books it revealed, all of them in the process of waking up. When it finally came to rest the bookcases were at least four times higher than before. I would now have to contend with thousands of vermin, not hundreds.

The first of them were already descending on me. It surprised me that they came from the topmost shelves, but I realised why when they opened their covers in free fall and proceeded to flap their pages: they were
flying
Animatomes - the bat variety. A whole flock of them swooped down and soared round my head, screeching savagely. Where normal books were cut off flush at the head, these possessed little mouths armed with tiny teeth that gnashed at me avidly.

Other Animatomes behaved like snakes. They emerged from the bookcases very slowly, their leathery bodies stretching and contracting in an elastic, rhythmical manner, and they hissed like venomous Midgard cobras.

The most unpleasant specimens walked on eight legs, spider fashion. More agile and aggressive than the snakelike variety, they struck me as being capable of committing the worst atrocities. I couldn’t tell which way up they were. They could change direction at lightning speed, confronting me with their leather backs and rustling pages alternately, and they kept rotating on the spot. I had no idea what they would use to bite or sting me with, but doubtless I would find out soon enough.

So the Animatomes hemmed me in on all sides. The circle round me drew ever tighter as more and more of them came creeping, crawling or fluttering out of the bookcases. If I didn’t very soon shake off the paralysis that had gripped me, they would bury me beneath them and tear me to pieces.

I’m rather embarrassed to admit this, dear readers, but I was suddenly, to my shame, reminded of a maxim in
The Way of the Bookhunter
, Rongkong Koma’s awful, shoddily written autobiography. To be precise, I was reminded of his Rule No. 3:

Yes, a book that was alive and moving could be killed - that sounded logical, didn’t it? This merciless underworld had taught me a lesson or two and the time had come at last to put them into effect.

I dealt one of the flying books a swingeing blow with my paw in mid air. The pages went flying everywhere, whole swaths of them, before its remains tumbled to the floor, where I crushed them underfoot. Its innards gurgled and blood as black as printer’s ink went spurting in all directions. I took advantage of the universal consternation this caused to stamp on two snakelike specimens in my immediate vicinity. They emitted a startled hiss and lay still.