The City of Dreaming Books (62 page)

But despite the increasing mobility of my writing paw, and despite my expanded vocabulary and the unusual methods Homuncolossus employed to boost my creativity, I had still written nothing of note. Yet I wrote unceasingly. My spelling and style were flawless, but
what
I wrote was so insignificant that I usually threw my efforts into the fire. Wasn’t it all a case of love’s labour’s lost? Wasn’t it possible that I was one of those relatively untalented writers who would never rise above the mediocre? I felt so tired and depressed one day that I shared these dismal thoughts with Homuncolossus.

He deliberated for a while, and I could tell that the decision he seemed to be turning over in his mind was not unimportant to him.

‘It’s time we addressed the practical side of your training,’ he said firmly. ‘The Orm cannot be attained by force, but anyone with literary aspirations must also have undergone certain experiences. In that respect, Shadowhall Castle presents opportunities afforded by no other building in the whole of Zamonia.’

‘That hadn’t escaped me,’ I said.

‘You don’t know the half of it!’

‘I thought I knew most of the premises by now.’

Homuncolossus gave a scornful laugh. ‘Don’t you ever wonder what Shadowhall Castle really is?’

‘Of course, all the time.’

‘And what conclusion have you come to?’

I shrugged.

‘Is it a building?’ he asked. ‘A trap? A machine? A living creature? Would you like to come with me and find out?’

‘Of course.’

‘The trip won’t be devoid of danger. However, I think I can guarantee that it will provide you with the first great story you’ll commit to paper with your new writing paw and your new vocabulary.’

‘Let’s go, then!’

‘To repeat, it could be dangerous. Very dangerous.’

‘What can go wrong? I’ve got the Shadow King as a bodyguard.’

‘There are creatures in the catacombs more dangerous than the Shadow King.’

‘Even in Shadowhall Castle?’

‘In the part of the castle we’re going to, yes.’

‘Ooh, now you’ve really whetted my curiosity. Where
are
we going?’

‘To the cellar.’

‘Shadowhall Castle has a cellar?’

‘Of course,’ said Homuncolossus. ‘Every creepy castle has one.’

I
t’s hard to say how long we took to descend the stairs that led to the cellar of Shadowhall Castle, but it must have been several hours. Besides, the term ‘stairs’ is rather too simple for the context. In the Weeping Shadows’ long-forgotten vocabulary, the kind of route we took was called a
chasmogloom
, which combined the notions of depth and darkness.

We began by descending a flight of stone steps cut into the rock, then climbed down some ornate cast-iron ladders covered with luminous rust (probably installed by the Rusty Gnomes), and in places we even had to abseil or slide down chutes. Eventually we came to a stalactite cave. I expressed disbelief that it really formed part of the castle.

‘Of course it does,’ Homuncolossus retorted sharply. ‘These caves are situated beneath Shadowhall; ergo, they’re the castle cellars.’ The jellyfish torch he was carrying shed only a meagre light over the spacious cavern, which was cold and damp and smelt of mould and dead fish. I was already beginning to wish myself back in the bizarre but reasonably temperate environment of the castle itself.

Homuncolossus went on ahead with the torch held high. Its light was reflected by amber-coloured crystals that sprouted from the ground on every side like mushrooms. I could no longer detect any signs of civilisation, no carved rocks, no petrified books, no symbols engraved on the walls. I was once more in a part of the catacombs seldom frequented, or so it seemed, by creatures endowed with the power of thought.

‘I’m sure you’ve heard of the
Gigantotomes
found down here,’ said Homuncolossus, striding briskly on ahead. ‘Books the size of barn doors and so heavy that ten Bookhunters couldn’t carry them.’

‘Yes, there’s something about them in Regenschein’s book. He called them old wives’ tales spread by the Bookhunters to glamorise their work - and, I suspect, to deter people from following them into the catacombs, because giant books imply the presence of giants.’

‘There were legends about giants in the catacombs long before any Bookhunters arrived on the scene. They were known as
Ultrabigs
or
Megabods.
They’re believed to have been the earliest inhabitants of this underworld. A long extinct race too bulky for such a cramped environment.’

‘The huge skull Hunk Hoggno lived in could have belonged to a giant.’

‘It belonged to an animal. An exceptionally large animal, but not a giant.’

Homuncolossus climbed down a shaft and I followed him willy-nilly. It came out in a dark cave so vast that his jellyfish torch illuminated only part of the floor, whose smooth, even surface made an artificial impression. The scent of old books was almost powerful enough to be called a stench.

‘Where are we?’ I asked. ‘Are there some books around here?’

‘Pay attention,’ said Homuncolossus. ‘I’m now going to do something I learnt from the Booklings while observing them in secret.’

‘You spied on them? I suppose you do that to everyone, don’t you? Haven’t you ever heard of the right to privacy?’

Homuncolossus grinned. ‘For instance, I left Dancelot’s letter outside the entrance to the Leather Grotto. That’s how they led me to their Chamber of Marvels. I know ways through the rocks unknown to anyone else. I also know where the Booklings hide their Star of the Catacombs.’

‘
You
took them Dancelot’s letter?’

‘Who else?’ Homuncolossus demanded with some justification. ‘You read it, I gather.’

I nodded.

‘I suppose you always read other people’s letters. Haven’t you ever heard of the right to privacy?’

I hung my head in shame, only to look up quickly because Homuncolossus had hurled his torch high in the air.

‘The Booklings call this flame-throwing,’ he said.

‘I know.’

The blue light of the whirling torch revealed that the cavern was huge - at least a hundred feet high and lined from floor to ceiling with bookcases. This wasn’t so remarkable in itself, because I had seen even taller bookcases in the catacombs. The astonishing thing was, the books in them were the size of barn doors.

Having deftly caught the torch, Homuncolossus grinned at me and hurled it into the air once more.

At the sight of those long rows of gigantic volumes standing side by side, I was overcome by an emotion for which ‘respect’ would be an inadequate definition. The Weeping Shadows had a word for it, namely
chillspine
, a feeling of awe verging on stark terror - a state of mind in which you can barely restrain the urge to fling yourself face down in the dust and beg for mercy.

Homuncolossus caught the torch again.

‘Some of the books in here are as big as a house,’ he said.

‘But surely,’ I croaked, ‘the folk they belonged to must have been dead for ages?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Homuncolossus, ‘they’re long dead and gone.’

I breathed again. These books were merely the artefacts of an extinct race of giants.

‘All except for one.’

I gave a start. ‘You mean there’s something alive down here?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’

‘What is it?’

‘Hard to say. Something very big. A monster.’

‘There’s a monster living in this cellar?’

‘There’s a monster in every cellar.’

‘So it’s a giant
and
a monster?’ I was growing uneasy.

‘Yes. I don’t know how else to put this,’ said Homuncolossus. ‘It isn’t just its size that makes it so monstrous. There’s worse to come: I suspect the creature of being a cannibal.’

A monster, a giant and a cannibal - better and better. I could only hope that Homuncolossus was making another attempt to stimulate my imagination with the figments of his own.

‘And now’, he said, I’ll tell you something you certainly won’t believe. This giant is a scientist - a sort of alchemist. He can read. He reads all these huge books you see here. He conducts experiments in a gigantic laboratory not far from here. He has stacked the corpses of his ancestors in a vast ice cave. I think he owes his survival to having devoured them one by one. It’s their frozen blood that keeps him going.’

Yes, yes, that was the kind of tale you told your playmates as a child, to give them the creeps. Perhaps the Shadow King intended to train me to be a thriller writer.

‘Do you know what else I think?’ he asked.

‘I can hardly wait to hear.’

Homuncolossus bent down and addressed me in a hoarse, conspiratorial whisper. ‘I think this giant is insane - completely off his head.’ He tapped his brow. ‘Except that he doesn’t have a head.’

‘He doesn’t?’

‘No, not what
we
would call a head. He doesn’t have a mouth either, but I once saw him devouring one of those corpses. Believe me, it was the most unappetising sight I’ve ever—’

‘That’s enough!’ I exclaimed. ‘You don’t scare me. Come on, it’s time you told me what we’re really looking for down here.’

‘I already did. We’re looking for the secret of Shadowhall Castle, the ultimate mystery of the catacombs.’

‘There isn’t any giant here. You’re simply trying it on.’

‘Take the lead, then, if you’re so unafraid.’

‘I will.’

‘In that case, carry on.’

I brushed past the Shadow King and took a few hesitant steps into the gloom.

‘If this really is the haunt of a dangerous monster,’ I said, ‘why would you be crazy enough to set foot in it?’

‘I’m not,’ Homuncolossus retorted. ‘
You
are.’

‘What do you mean?’ I asked, turning round. But he wasn’t there any more. His jellyfish torch was lying on the ground, but that was all.

I
was reminded of the pranks we used to play in my boyhood. At Lindworm Castle we would lure younger playmates into dark, eerie caves and then run off. We thought it was terribly funny to leave them there, blubbing helplessly as they stumbled around in the dark while we laughed ourselves sick in some secret hiding place. But I was thirty or forty years old at the time - a mere child. The Shadow King’s practical jokes were equally infantile.

‘Homuncolossus!’ I called. ‘What is all this nonsense?’

No answer.

I went over to the torch and picked it up.

‘Homuncolossus!’ I called again.

‘
Coloss . . . loss . . . loss . . . us . . . us . . .
’ the echoes replied.

He was bound to be lurking in the darkness somewhere. However, I wasn’t going to gratify him by showing any sign of fear or weakness, so I simply raised the torch above my head and strode further into the enormous library. He could slink after me if he was enjoying himself so much.

The sight of those monstrous great books in the blue light of the torch was theatrical, like the backdrop for a play about ogres. They must have been thousands of years old, judging by the smell, so it was remarkable that they hadn’t disintegrated. Perhaps the giants who produced them knew of a special method of preserving paper -
if
the pages were made of paper and not of metal or the hide of some primeval beast. I could only see their massive, sometimes scaly backs, which were adorned with little studs. These, too, may have been a form of writing. What stories did the books contain? Or were they scientific works devoted to crazy giganto-alchemism? I would have needed a dozen pairs of sturdy arms to topple such a volume off a shelf and examine it.

Lying at the bottom of one of the bookcases was a metal gadget resembling a pair of compasses, except that it had three points and was twice my size. The legs were of silver, now almost black with oxidation, whereas the pivot, screws and points were made of brass. Unfamiliar symbols were engraved on the metal. Units of measurement, perhaps? An archaeological find of this nature would have caused a sensation in Bookholm, except that I would have needed a horse and cart to shift it.