by Michael Ende
By the power of anti-clock,
Imagery of fiery bluster,
Turn as cold and hard as rock!”
Right away the fire stopped flickering and stood still—completely motionless—and now looked like some strange, large plant with many glowing-green, jagged leaves.
Preposteror reached in with his bare hands and plucked off one leaf after another, until he had an armful. He had barely finished when a new fire flared up in the hearth and danced as before.
The sorcerer went to the table in the middle of the laboratory, where he fitted together the rigid, glassy-green leaves like the pieces of a puzzle. Where the jagged edges fit perfectly together, they melted into a single piece in no time (the variously shaped flames in every fire would always form a whole—if brought together—only these forms are constantly changing, and changing so quickly that one cannot observe them with the normal eye).
A flat dish quickly materialized beneath Preposteror’s skilled hands; then he added sides, until, finally, a large, round goldfish bowl approximately three feet tall and three feet wide stood there. It glowed with a greenish light and looked somehow unreal.
“Well,” said the sorcerer, wiping his fingers on his dressing gown, “that’s that. Looks good, don’t you think?”
“And you think it’s going to hold?” asked the witch. “Guaranteed?”
“You can bet on it.”
“Beelzebub Preposteror,” said Tyrannia with a mixture of envy and respect, “how did you do that?”
“You would hardly be able to grasp such scientific processes, Auntie,” Preposteror said. “Heat and movement exist only in positive time. If one sprinkles them with negative moments, so-called anti-time particles, they cancel each other out and the fire becomes rigid and cold, as you just saw.”
“Can you touch it?”
“Naturally.”
The witch let her hand glide cautiously over the surface of the giant bowl. Then she asked, “Could you teach me how to do that, Bubby?”
Preposteror shook his head. “Professional secret!”
The Dead Park surrounding the Villa Nightmare was not particularly big. Although it was in the center of town, hardly anyone in the neighborhood had ever seen it, for it was surrounded by a stone wall nine feet high.
But sorcerers can also construct invisible obstacles which, for example, are composed of Forget or Sad or Confused. Thus had Preposteror constructed an invisible barrier of Fear and Horror around his property beyond the stone wall, which prompted all busybodies to continue hastily on their way, rather than bothering about what was behind the wall.
There was one high gate of rusted wrought iron, but even here one could not peek into the park, since the view was blocked by a dense, tangled hedge of giant black thorns. This was the gate Preposteror used when he took a ride in his Magimobile—which was a rare occurrence indeed.
Once upon a time—when it still had another name—the Dead Park had consisted of a mass of big, beautiful trees and picturesque clusters of bushes, but now they were all bare—and not only because it was winter. The sorcerer had carried out his scientific experiments on them for decades, had manipulated their growth, crippled their regenerative powers, and tapped their life sources until he had slowly tortured them to death, one after the other. Now they merely stretched thin, withered branches into the sky, as if they had cried for help with agonized gestures before they died—but no one had heard their silent cry. There had not been a bird in the park for a long time, not even in summer.
The fat little cat trudged through the deep snow, with the raven hopping and fluttering beside him, although he got blown over by the wind from time to time. Both were silent, for they needed all their strength to fight their way forward.
The high stone wall would have been no problem for Jacob, but it definitely was for Mauricio. But then he remembered the iron gate through which he had first entered. They squeezed through the ornate iron bars.
The invisible barrier of Fear was no great problem for them either, since it had been specially constructed for people and was made of Fear of Ghosts; even die-hard skeptics suddenly believed in ghosts when they entered this zone, and took to their heels.
Most animals are afraid of ghosts as well—but cats and ravens least of all.
“Tell me, Jacob,” asked Mauricio quietly, “do you believe in ghosts?”
“Sure,” said Jacob.
“Have you ever seen one?”
“Not personally,” said Jacob, “but in the olden days all my relatives used to squat on the gallows where the hanged men swung. Or they nested on the roofs of haunted castles. In any case, there were ghosts galore, there were. But the likes of us never had any trouble with them. Not that I know of. On the contrary, some of them were good friends of my people.”
“Yes,” said Mauricio bravely, “it was just the same with my ancestors.”
In this way they had passed through the invisible barrier and were now on the street.
The windows of the high buildings were festively illuminated, for people everywhere were celebrating New Year’s Eve or preparing for the joyous event. Hardly a car was still on the road, and rarer still was the sight of a pedestrian, hat pulled low, hurriedly heading somewhere or other.
No one in the entire town had any idea of the catastrophe that was brewing in the Villa Nightmare. And no one noticed the fat little cat and the tattered raven who had made their way into the unknown to search for salvation.
At first, the two of them wondered whether they shouldn’t just appeal to one of the passersby, but they quickly changed their minds, for first of all, it was highly unlikely that a normal person would understand their meowing and croaking (it was possible that he would only take them and lock them in a cage), and second of all, they knew that there was hardly ever any hope of success when animals asked people for help. This had been proven often enough. Even when it was in their own interest to pay heed to nature’s cries for help, humans had remained deaf. People had seen the bloody tears of many animals—and still gone on as before.
No, there was no hope of a split-second rescue at the hands of the humans. At whose hands, then? Jacob and Mauricio couldn’t say. They just kept on going and going. It was a little easier walking on the plowed street, yet their progress was still slow against the snowstorm blowing into their faces. But, of course, those who know not where they are headed are not in much of a hurry.
After they had gone on side by side for some time, Mauricio said quietly, “Jacob, perhaps these are our last hours in this life. Therefore, I absolutely must tell you something. I never would have thought that I would become friends with a bird someday, let alone with a raven, but now I am proud that I have found such a wise and experienced friend as yourself. Truly, I do admire you.”
The raven cleared his throat in slight embarrassment and then replied in a husky voice, “I’d have never thought myself that I would ever have a real chum who’s a famous artist and a proper dandy to boot. I don’t know just how to put it. No one never taught me good manners and fancy words. You see, I’m just a common, run-of-the-mill vagabond, here today, gone tomorrow, and I’ve always managed to get along somehow. I’m not as educated as you. The windblown ravens’ nest where I crawled out of the egg was a common, run-of-the-mill ravens’ nest, and my parents were common, run-of-the-mill, raving raven parents—very common, for that matter. No one has ever really liked me, not even myself. And I’m not musical, that’s for sure. And I never learned no pretty songs. But I imagine it’s great if you can.”
“Oh, Jacob, Jacob,” cried the little cat, who had trouble not showing that he was close to tears, “I do not stem from an ancient lineage of knights, and my ancestors didn’t come from Naples. To tell the truth, I’m not even quite sure where that is. And my name isn’t Mauricio di Mauro either; I just made that up. My real name is Morris—plain old Morris. At least you know who your parents were—I don’t even know that much, because I grew up among stray, wild cats in som
e damp hole of a cellar. They took turns at being mother, one day one, the next day the other, whoever felt like it. The other kittens were all much stronger than I when it came to getting their share of the catnip. That’s why I remained so small and my appetite so big. And I certainly never was a famous minnesinger. I never did have a beautiful voice.”
Both were silent for a while.
“Well, why did you say so in the first place?” Jacob asked pensively.
The cat pondered on it.
“I don’t really know,” he admitted. “It was my life’s dream, do you understand? I so wished to become a famous artist—big and beautiful and elegant, with a silky white coat and a wonderful voice. Someone everybody loves and respects.”
“Hmm,” said Jacob.
“It was just a dream,” continued the little cat, “and actually, I always knew that it would never come true. That’s why I simply pretended that it was so. Do you think that was a big sin?”
“How do I know,” rasped Jacob. “I don’t know anything about sins and pious stuff like that.”
“Yes, but . . . are you angry with me now?”
“Angry? Nonsense—I think you’re a little soft in the head. But that doesn’t matter. You’re still all right.”
And the raven put his tattered wing around his friend’s shoulders for the space of a moment.
“When I think about it,” he said, “the name Morris doesn’t not please me half bad; quite to the contrary.”
“No, I mean because I am not a famous singer, after all.”
“Who knows,” said the raven enigmatically. “I have known lies to become truths with time—and then they were lies no more.”
Morris cast a somewhat uneasy sideways glance at his traveling companion, because he hadn’t quite understood what Jacob meant.
“Do you think I could still become one?” he asked with widened eyes.
“If we live long enough . . .” said Jacob, half to himself.
The little cat continued excitedly: “I told you about Grandma Mia, didn’t I, the wise old cat who knew so many mysterious things? She also lived with us in the cellar. She has been with the Great Tom in Kitty Heaven for a long time now, like all the others, except for me. Shortly before she died, she told me something. ‘Morris,’ she said, ‘if you really want to become a great artist, you must experience all of life’s ups and downs, for only he who has done so can touch the hearts of one and all.’ Yes, that is what she said. But do you understand what she meant?”
“Well,” answered the raven dryly, “you’ve already experienced the downs, I should say.”
“Do you really think so?” asked Morris happily.
“Sure,” croaked Jacob. “You can’t get any lower than rock bottom, kitty. Now all you need are the ups.”
And they continued on in silence through the snow and the wind.
Far off at the end of the street the steeple of the cathedral stood out against the nighttime sky.
In the meantime, the work in the laboratory was in full swing.
The first step was to gather the various substances necessary for the production of the Satanarchaeolidealcohellish Notion Potion. The long strip of parchment lay unrolled on the floor and was weighted down with piles of books so it wouldn’t roll up again.
Having once more carefully studied the instructions at the beginning of the scroll, Preposteror and Tyrannia now got down to the formula itself. Both stood hunched over the text, deciphering what was written there. This would have been impossible for non-sorcerers, for they were dealing with an incredibly complicated secret alphabet, the so-called Infernal Code. But for the two of them, cracking the code was a piece of cake. Also, the requirements concerning the basic ingredients were still relatively uncomplicated at the beginning.
Translated into our alphabet, the beginning of the formula read as follows:
Rivers four do flow through hell,
Darkest torture’s sacred well:
The Cocytus, the Acheron,
The Styx and Pyriphlegethon.
Ice, fire, poison, slime,
Take a pinch of all four kinds,
Shake it up over the sink,
Basis for a lying drink.
Like all well-equipped lab sorcerers, Preposteror had sufficient supplies of all four substances. While he gathered and mixed them reverently in a special shaker, Tyrannia read the next part out loud:
“Liquid money’s what you need:
Put ten grand in your account,
Stockpiled from a lifetime’s greed
And stolen to a large amount.
Liquefy the interest only—
Three quarts and a quarter more.
These you pour into the punch bowl,
Don’t get any on the floor!”
Of course, the witch knew how to liquefy money. In the wink of an eye, the three and one quarter quarts were glistening in the giant bowl of Cold Fire. A golden glow enveloped the room.
Preposteror poured in the hellish liquid from his shaker, and the potion shone no more. The brew was now as black as night, but here and there flashes of lightning like pulsating arteries shot through it and disappeared just as quickly.
The third instruction read:
Time for shedding crocodile tears now,
At a most alarming rate.
Drop by drop you let them flow,
Whilst bemoaning your sad state.
After stirring up the briny
Potion, mix in with the rest.
Any wine that comes from whining
Has to be the very best.
Now, of course, this was a little more difficult, for as has already been mentioned, evil sorcerers and witches cannot shed tears—not even false ones. But once again Preposteror rose to the occasion.
He remembered having stored away in his cellar several bottles of crocodile tears of a particularly bounteous vintage. They had been given him years and years ago by a certain head of state, who was one of Preposteror’s most important clients. He brought up the bottles—there were seven of them—and after he had poured their contents into the black brew and stirred vigorously, the liquid changed color again and slowly turned red as blood.
And so it went, on and on. Sometimes Preposteror knew what to do and other times Tyrannia did. Propelled by their common evil will, they worked together as effortlessly as if they had never in their lives done anything else.
Only once did they share a bone of contention; namely, when they came to the part which read as follows:
Take a scoop of fresh brain jelly
(Good for building up your strength!)
Corresponding most precisely
To half your favorite color’s length.
Of course, they both knew perfectly well how to measure the length of a color; that was not the problem. Their quarrel concerned whose favorite color should be used. Tyrannia insisted that it must be hers, because the instruction was written on that part of the scroll which belonged to her. Preposteror, on the other hand, maintained that it could only be his favorite color, since the entire experiment was taking place in his laboratory. They probably wouldn’t have reached an agreement on this point so soon if they hadn’t discovered, to their common relief, that half the length of sulphurous yellow was precisely as long as half the length of bilious green. Thus was the problem solved.
Now, surely nobody will honestly expect to find the entire list of ingredients necessary for the preparation of the Satanarchaeolidealcohellish Notion Potion printed here. The reason for their absence lies not only in the fact that such a complete list would unduly stretch out this story (after all, the scroll was about five yards long), but rather more in a well-founded worry: one can never know into whose hands a book such as this might fall, and no one should be tempted to undertake the brewing of this diabolic drink himself. There are already too many people of Preposteror’s and Tyrannia’s ilk in the world. Therefore, the sensible reader is kindly requested to accept the fact that most of the information
must be withheld here.
Jacob Scribble and Morris sat at the foot of the cathedral, the steeple of which rose up like the face of a giant, jagged mountain into the nighttime sky. Both had their heads tilted back as far as they would go and gazed silently up into the air.
After a while the raven cleared his throat. “A barn owl acquaintance of mine used to live up there,” he said. “Her name was Nun Bubu. A nice old lady. She had some crazy notions about life; that’s why she preferred living all alone and went out only at night. But she sure knew a lot of things. If only she was there now, we could ask for advice.”
“Where is she?” asked the cat.
“No idea. She emigrated because she couldn’t stand the smog any longer. She always was a little finicky. Maybe she’s long since died.”
“What a shame,” said Morris. And after a while he added, “Perhaps the cathedral bells bothered her as well. It must be awfully loud up there, so close to them.”
“I don’t really think so,” said Jacob. “No owl was never bothered by cathedral bells.”
And then he repeated once more, pensively, “The cathedral bells . . . wait a minute . . . cathedral bells . . .”
Suddenly he hopped into the air and screeched at the top of his lungs, “That’s it! I’ve goooot it!”
“What?” asked a frightened Morris.
“Nothin’,” answered Jacob, both feet back on the ground, and buried his head beneath his wing. “It won’t work. No use. A lot of baloney. Forget it.”
“What? Tell me!”
“Well, I was just thinking we could simply ring the New Year’s bells a little earlier, like now, you understand? That would cancel out the reverse effect of the magic punch. They said themselves that even the first tiny tinkling of the New Year’s bells would be enough. Don’t you remember? Then nothing but good would come of their lying wishes, is what I thought.”
The little cat stared at the raven. It took him a while to understand, but then his eyes began to glow. “Jacob,” he said reverently, “Jacob Scribble, old friend, I think you are truly a genius. That is our salvation! Yes, I can really get excited about that.”
