The 13.5 Lives of Captain Bluebear

by Walter Moers

  I had discovered an earthly paradise.

  The climate was temperate, neither too hot nor too cold, with an average shade temperature of 75 degrees Fahrenheit and a steady, refreshing breeze. It never got very cold, even at night, because the forest floor gave off a pleasant warmth and purred like a contented cat when you stretched out on it.

  I really hadn’t expected such splendour, in fact I found it slightly embarrassing to have hit the jackpot on my very first voyage of exploration. After all my hardships and tribulations, I felt as if I’d finally come home.

  For the first few days I toured the island in a kind of dream. I hardly dared to touch its treasures for fear they would dissolve into thin air like a mirage. But they were real enough. After a while I plucked up the courage to sample them all, taking a morsel here, a sip there. Many things were an acquired taste – after all, my diet hitherto had consisted exclusively of seaweed, berries, nuts, and water – but many others I took to at once, like the drinking chocolate from the river of milk and the honey from the flower cups.

  It was a while before I learnt what to do with the island’s unfamiliar flora, but I learnt very quickly. The long, noodlelike creepers tasted delicious when dipped in the warm pulp of the giant tomatoes that grew everywhere. All the grass on the island was edible. Slightly nutty and bitter in flavour, it went well with potato fritters.

  The fruit was sensational in its variety. In addition to ordinary coconuts, bananas, oranges, apples, nuts and grapes there were exotic plants tasting like vanilla and cinnamon that exuded sweet milk or were crunchy as crispbread. One red, banana-shaped fruit tasted of marzipan, while the leaves of a fat, comfortable-looking tree had a gingerbread flavour.

  I eventually became acquainted with all the island’s delicacies.

  My daily routine

  In the mornings, immediately after waking up, I would totter over to the river of milk, shake the cocoa plants, and slurp up great mouthfuls of drinking chocolate. Then I paid the honey-flowers a visit and picked myself a slice of toast. After that I usually retired to a clearing and munched my breakfast while watching the humming-birds daringly loop the loop for my entertainment. The little cats would come running up and rub themselves against my fur, purring, or romp around in the morning sun.

  After breakfast I made a regular habit of touring my domain. The island was not very big, only a few hundred yards in diameter, perhaps, but chock-full of minor sensations. The singing flowers learned a new song every day, and I spent hours listening to their silvery voices and watching the butterflies perform their flirtatious aerial ballets. The squirrels, too, were fond of showing off their acrobatic skills. Most of the time one of them sat perched on my head or shoulder and let me carry it around.

  My favourite feasting-place at lunchtime was the pool of oil. I generally ate my potato fritters with rocket, or sometimes a morsel of blue cauliflower.

  After lunch I liked to take a nap. In the afternoons I often went for a swim in the warm sea. The water around the island was calm and clearly uninhabited by any dangerous sea creatures. I lay floating on my back for hours or sat in the gentle surf, which continually washed up thousands of tiny shellfish between my legs.

  I liked to spend the end of the day on the beach, watching the sun go down with the little cats for company. At dusk I went back into the forest, curled up on the warm, purring, mossy ground, and dreamed of being the skipper of the big iron ship I’d seen.

  My diet was extremely well balanced at first. I ate at long intervals, took plenty of exercise, and was satisfied with the range of food on offer. After a month or two, however, I began to eat snacks between meals. Nothing elaborate, just a potato fritter here, a slice of toast there, and now and then one of the fat chocolate drops from the cocoa plants. It sometimes irked me that the cuisine was so limited. After six months I introduced a second breakfast consisting of two slices of toast and honey, a teatime snack of cake (from the cake tree), a sundowner (mushrooms with blue cauliflower), and a selection of fruit before retiring for the night. Instead of long walks I took siestas. As time went by the intervals between my meals became steadily shorter. I inserted extra courses between my first and second breakfasts (in-between breakfasts, I called them), regaled myself with an appetizer just before lunch (marzipan fruits, chocolate drops, dollops of honey) and followed it up with an assortment of pastries. In the afternoon came potatoes and liana-spaghetti in tomato sauce plus more pastries and fruit. I divided supper into several courses to spin it out until bedtime. I generally began by wolfing a whole mushroom, then a blue cauliflower. Then, after a brief interval for digestion, some milk. Then potato fritters with rocket and pastries to follow. Just before going to sleep, a few more slices of toast and honey.

  In the end I even got up to eat in the middle of the night. I would stagger blearily through the forest and plunge my snout in the river of milk, stuff myself with chocolate drops, or slurp wild honey straight from a flower cup. I was often haunted by nightmares, most of them to do with food.

  Varied vegetation

  The island’s vegetation underwent an amazing change. Whenever I had eaten too much of a particular food, kindly Nature saw to it that some new and even more exquisite delicacy sprouted elsewhere. Fat, strong-scented truffles had lately been flourishing beneath the forest floor. I took a while to get used to their intense flavour, but once I had I couldn’t leave them alone. They went especially well with liana-spaghetti. Ceps now grew where ordinary field mushrooms had grown before. The height of a man, they made an elegant dish when combined with fresh rocket. Vast quantities of oysters were being washed up on the beach. Although it had never before occurred to me to eat a raw, slippery oyster, my gums had become steadily more sensitive, my taste buds more fastidious, my palate more refined. I was soon slurping down two dozen oysters between each course. Huge lobsters came waddling out of the sea and committed suicide in the pool of seething oil. I discovered, once I had learned how to crack their massive shells, that the flesh inside was absolutely delicious.

  I had become accustomed to dividing the day into meals. I couldn’t sleep properly any more, my stomach was always too full. I merely dozed a little, half asleep and dreaming of my next meal. Completely unused to physical exertion, I simply crawled or rolled from one course to the next.

  A year later

  By the time a year had gone by I was as fat as bacon rind and as round as a football. I weighed many times what I had weighed when I first set foot on the island and proudly claimed it as my own. I hadn’t seen the sea for months. I was thick with grease and stank like a snack bar. I exuded cooking oil from every pore. I had ceased to wash and brush my fur – I hadn’t even risen on my hind legs for weeks. Every movement was a terrible effort and made me stream with sweat. My breathing rattled and whistled in my chest. I could no longer see my hind paws because they were obscured by my bulging tummy. Even my eyelids had grown fatter, so I found it increasingly difficult to keep them open. My thoughts were of nothing but food. I spent the whole time planning new menus, lusting after new taste sensations, envisioning ever more daring combinations of ever more exotic foods.

  One day – I was just between my thirteenth and fourteenth meals and already wondering anxiously whether a whole man-sized mushroom would be enough for supper – the wind suddenly changed and I smelt something I’d never before smelt on the island. It was the sort of unpleasant stench that might have been given off by a thousand aquatic plants rotting away in a stagnant pond. For some reason I felt ripe, as overripe as autumn fruit – or, rather, like a fattened hog being led to the slaughter.

  The island awakes

  And then the island began to shudder beneath me. I tried to stand up, but no sooner had I succeeded than my head swam and I collapsed. I had literally forgotten how to stand.

  Within seconds the palm trees around me seemed to wilt, shrivelling up into ugly little withered plants resembling skinny black hands. All the other plants withered too, and the lush grass became tr
ansformed into a black carpet like a field of scorched stubble. Ugly little holes appeared all over the place, opening and shutting like fishes’ mouths. I even thought I spotted teeth inside them. My paradise was turning into a hell.

  Birds and butterflies fell to earth as if shot, crumbled away to dust, and seeped into the quaking soil. The air was filled with a loud, horrific sound like a hundred wild boars smacking their lips and belching. I made another attempt to get up and stagger off, but I was rooted to the spot: one of the withered plants – it had once been a singing flower – grabbed me by the ankle and hung on tight. Then it started to grow, very, very quickly.

  I was hoisted into the air and suspended upside down at a height of eighty or ninety feet. Absolutely terrified, I looked down and saw that the island, now completely devoid of vegetation, had split in two. An immense cleft ran straight through the middle of it, gaping like the jaws of a shark. I found myself gazing into a huge, stinking mouth studded with thousands of rotting teeth.

  From the

  ‘Encyclopedia of Marvels, Life Forms and Other Phenomena of Zamonia and its Environs’

  by Professor Abdullah Nightingale

  Gourmetica insularis, The. The Gourmetica insularis is a heterotrophic carnivorous plant, that is to say, one of the very rare family of plants that feeds on organic rather than inorganic matter, like most flora. The Gourmetica is among the Zamonian life forms that attract their quarry in an unsportsmanlike manner, being distantly related to the much smaller Venus flytrap and the equally rare →Spiderwitch. It is capable of transforming itself into a kind of floating paradise in order to lure and fatten its prey in the most ingenious way. A mature Gourmetica can attain a circumference of several miles but needs only 300 pounds (live weight) of fresh meat, or thereabouts, to feed itself for a year. This must be provided by one of the more highly developed mammals, however, because fish or birds will not do. The Gourmetica is firmly anchored to the seabed – a blessing on Nature’s part, when one considers what havoc a mobile carnivorous plant of this order could wreak in a heavily populated seaside town.

  So there I hung, high in the air, the black claws holding me poised above the huge mouth just as I myself had prepared to drop a grape into my own mouth only minutes earlier. Looking down into the plant’s gaping maw, I could see cascades of saliva gathering within it. A tongue like a huge green snake came writhing up towards me from the depths, accompanied by a blast of air so foul that it almost robbed me of my senses. Then the grip on my ankle relaxed. Finally released altogether, I fell head over heels into the gullet of the treacherous aquatic plant.

  They say people see the whole of their lives replayed like a film before they die. In my case it was a very short film: the Minipirates, the Hobgoblins, the Babbling Billows, Gourmet Island. Was that all? Evidently it was, for I was plummeting in free fall into the jaws of a huge, merciless plant that showed absolutely no sign of relenting.

  It’s amazing how vividly you perceive things in a situation of this kind. I noticed, for example, that the Gourmetica’s teeth were in a shockingly neglected condition, some of them being overgrown with seaweed and colonies of shellfish, others suppurating and coated with a thick, vile-smelling film of slime. Lodged between them were the skeletons of sharks and small whales and the bones of seals and sea lions that had presumably strayed in by mistake. At the back of the throat I even sighted the splintered remains of a rowing boat with two human skeletons on board. The gullet opened, ready to engulf me and convey me into the digestive tract. I actually had time to analyse the differences between my current predicament and my very similar encounter with the Tyrannomobyus Rex. They were as follows: (a) The whale had not tried to swallow me with evil intent; the Gourmetica was not only doing so deliberately but had planned and elaborately staged the whole thing well in advance. (b) I had been washed into the whale’s mouth, whereas now I was in free fall. (c) The Gourmetica had no whiskers I could have clung to.

  I shut my eyes.

  At that moment something very strong grasped my right wrist and checked my descent. For a second I hung above the abyss, then I was yanked into the air. I shut my eyes and looked down: I was being plucked from the vegetable monster’s gaping jaws.

  It began to close them in hopes of thwarting my escape, but just before the mighty teeth slammed shut I was towed through the narrow gap that remained. Onwards and upwards I soared while the Gourmetica writhed in fury below me. It reared up, opened its vast mouth once more, and snapped at me, but I had gained too much height. The rotting teeth crashed together in vain. It shook its huge head and emitted a frightful howl of rage that went echoing far across the sea.

  Only now did I venture to look up.

  A strange bird

  A sizeable creature – I hesitate to call it a bird – was holding me in its talons. I was suspended beneath it like a mailbag about to be jettisoned at any moment.

  ‘In luck again, weren’t we?’ said the strange bird.

  I was speechless. It released me once more and I fell like a stone, straight towards the Gourmetica’s gaping, bellowing mouth. The bird performed a daring loop-the-loop, and I landed with a thud on its back. Laboriously, I struggled into a sitting position.

  ‘Er … Many thanks for saving my life,’ I heard myself say in a daze. The strange bird slowly turned its head and contemplated me with wide, watery eyes.

  ‘That’s all right,’ said the bird. ‘It was all in a day’s work.’

  ‘You mean it’s your job, saving lives?’ I was flabbergasted.

  ‘Saving lives in the nick of time!’ the bird replied rather smugly.

  ‘That’s my job.’

  It preserved a brief silence, presumably to let that information sink in. Then it introduced itself: ‘Deus X. Machina, at your service. That’s my professional name, to be honest. You may call me Mac – everyone does.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ I said. ‘My name’s Bluebear.’

  From the

  ‘Encyclopedia of Marvels, Life Forms and Other Phenomena of Zamonia and its Environs’

  by Professor Abdullah Nightingale

  Pterodactylus Salvator, The. The Pterodactylus Salvator or Roving Reptilian Rescuer belongs, like the Zamonian →Sewer Dragon and the →Tyrannomobyus Rex, to a family of dinosaurs close to extinction. The world’s surviving population of pterodactyls is estimated at several thousand, but their numbers are steadily diminishing. Although they possess a few birdlike attributes, for instance horny beaks and wings capable of aerodynamic propulsion, they lay no eggs and behave in a very unbirdlike manner from other points of view as well. They eat no earthworms or fieldmice, adhere to an exclusively vegetarian diet for reasons of physical fitness, and are linguistically gifted to a high degree. Common to them all is a propensity for preserving other life forms from danger. Pterodactyls pursue that goal with thoroughly professional alacrity, operating in accordance with a strict code of conduct. They endeavour to make their operations as exciting and dramatic as possible, even competing to see which of them can wait longest before effecting a rescue. That is why they spend so long circling above their prospective customers and refrain from coming to their assistance until the very last moment. There is no satisfactory scientific explanation for the altruistic conduct of these flying lizards. Taciturn and uncommunicative on principle, pterodactyls make no attempt to account for their behaviour. It is, however, presumed to be associated with their imminent extinction. Since dinosaurs have made no noteworthy contribution to history apart from eating and being eaten, pterodactyls are trying to leave their mark on the memory of man by being helpful.

  Where I was concerned, Mac had been circling the island for days, knowing precisely what lay in store for me. He could easily have rescued me before, but no – he had to wait until the very last moment.

  ‘You’re nice and plump,’ said Mac, not looking at me. ‘You really tucked in down there, eh?’ I blushed.

  ‘Those damned aquatic plants!’ he exclaimed in disgust, and spat i
nto the sea. ‘I hate them, the beasts. I’ve already had to rescue a whole bunch of people this year. There are always a few fools ready to fall for their cheap tricks.’

  I blushed still more.

  ‘Let this be a lesson to you,’ Mac went on. ‘Nothing in life is free, not even the food you eat.’

  I deigned to make a note of this.

  On the skyline was an island with a lofty pinnacle of rock projecting from it. Mac headed straight towards it.

  ‘This planet is full of dangers,’ Mac shouted into the headwind.

  ‘You have to take good care to avoid them – keep your eyes skinned all the time.’ He continued to make for the crag, vigorously flapping his wings.

  ‘Er …’ I started to say.

  But Mac wasn’t listening. ‘Always on the qui vive, that’s my motto.

  Drop your guard for an instant, and you’ve had it!’

  We were still racing towards the crag. Another two wingbeats, and we would crash right into it.

  ‘Look out!’ I shouted. ‘A rock!’

  Mac screwed up his eyes, then opened them wide.

  ‘Ouch!’ he yelled, and went into an almost vertical climb. We missed the tip of the rock by inches.

  An awkward silence reigned for some minutes. Then Mac cleared his throat.

  ‘That was, er …’ He broke off. ‘Well done, my boy! You’ve got sharp eyes.’

  He cleared his throat again.

  A proposition

  ‘I’m going to let you in on a secret,’ he went on, ‘but you must swear by all that’s holy you’ll never tell anyone.’