The City of Dreaming Books (59 page)

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.

T
his 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.

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!’