The 13.5 Lives of Captain Bluebear

by Walter Moers

  The Mountain Maggot

  Following the Maggot was fairly simple. It took no notice of me even when I came within eyeshot, and once, when I lost sight of it for a short time, I could tell which way it had gone by the freshly melted holes and metallic, crunching sounds.

  I amused myself en route by mentally dipping into Nightingale’s encyclopedia, which for some reason kept quoting ‘The Mountain Maggot’, over and over again. I know it by heart to this day:

  Give way it must, that iron wall,

  and let me through it climb.

  I cannot stop to eat it all,

  I never have the time.

  I bore holes with my fiery breath,

  digest the iron with ease

  and chew it with my stainless teeth

  as if it were but cheese.

  Away, you Troglotrolls! You’d best

  steer clear of me. Begone!

  Although I never pause to rest

  my work is never done.

  To give the poet his due, Wilfred the Wordsmith certainly had what it takes to turn oneself into a Mountain Maggot. I particularly liked the verse about the Troglotrolls.

  My only problem was the Maggot’s stamina, which seemed to be inexhaustible. It never stopped to rest and didn’t appear to sleep either – not, at least, while I was following it.

  Mountain Maggot, The [cont.]. The Mountain Maggot belongs to the unisomnolent genus, i.e. it sleeps only once in its life. This it does shortly after attaining its two-hundredth birthday, but for fourteen years at a stretch. During this time it subsists on its accumulated mineral reserves and breathes only once a month.

  I myself was running out of stamina after following hard on the creature’s heels for three days. The speed and diligence with which it worked were colossal. More and more often I had to sit down and take a breather – I even dozed off from time to time. On one occasion I awoke to find the Mountain Maggot gone. The nearest hole had cooled off long ago, and I couldn’t hear it at work. Ahead of me lay a fork in the tunnel. If I took the wrong turning, all my efforts would have been in vain.

  First right and second left – hurray,

  it’s easy to remember.

  If only I can find the way

  I’ll get out by December.

  The last hole in the wall had led to the right, so I now followed the poem’s instructions and turned left. There was no guarantee that Wildred’s suggestion was correct, of course. It might simply have been poetic licence.

  But it was my only hope. Sure enough, in the next passage I found a relatively fresh maggot-hole. I climbed over hissing pools of molten iron, stopped to listen in the passage after that – and was relieved to hear the familiar sounds of the Mountain Maggot at work. I hurried in their direction. Strangely enough, I got the impression that the darkness was becoming less intense. I turned a corner and ran full tilt into a wall of light.

  The wall of metal melts, and there

  a hole comes into sight.

  I feel a gentle breath of air

  and through the gap streams light.

  The hole in the mountain

  My eyes gradually accustomed themselves to the glare. Fanned by a cool breeze, I saw the Mountain Maggot standing with its back to me in the circular hole that led to the outside world. I drew nearer, quite unafraid, and walked right up to it. Even now it took no notice of me. Perhaps, like me, it was simply too overcome by the panorama that presented itself to our gaze. Beneath us, the crests of the Gloombergs stretched away into the far distance, and the clouds beyond them formed a flat expanse as white as cotton wool. It seemed we were on one of the highest pinnacles of rock in the entire mountain range, and the view below was obscured by mist. The sunlight warmed my stiff limbs, my hopes revived.

  Then a fat black storm cloud thrust itself in front of the sun and the temperature dropped in an instant. I leaned out and peered over the edge: the peak was several miles high and the surface of the Gloombergs as smooth as polished marble – not even the most experienced climber could have found a foothold. All my hopes vanished in a flash. The Mountain Maggot made some sniffing, lip-smacking noises, nervously shuffled from foot to foot and emitted exclamations that sounded like ‘Eeee!’ and ‘Oooh!’ Then it turned abruptly and went back into the tunnel. I hesitated for only a moment, then followed. What use was an exit at this altitude? I had no choice but to remain with the creature and hope that it would sometime make an opening lower down.

  Swiftly but aimlessly, or so it seemed, the Mountain Maggot burrowed ever deeper into the mountain, and I went with it.

  BOOOOOONNNNNGGGGG!

  What was that? A bellnote in the bowels of a mountain? The Maggot stopped short.

  BOOOOONNNNNG!

  There it was again, a little fainter and further away.

  BOOOOOOOOOOONNNNNNNNNNNGGGGGG!

  A third bellnote, louder and nearer than the first two. ‘Eee! Oooh!’ said the Mountain Maggot.

  BONGBONGBONGBONGBONGBONGBONG

  BONGBONGBONGBONGBONGBONGBONG

  BONGBONGBONGBONG!!!!!!!!

  I had yet to learn what a thunderstorm in the Gloombergs entailed. It seldom if ever rained in those mountains, but when it did, it did so with a vengeance.

  From the

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

  by Professor Abdullah Nightingale

  Gloomberg Tempest, The. Because of their iron content, the atmosphere above the Gloomberg Mountains always carries a heavy electrical charge. Thunderstorms are a very rare natural phenomenon there. When they do occur, however, the consequence is something that need not fear comparison with any other natural disaster and is known as ‘The Gloomberg Tempest’ or ‘The Tantrum of the Gods’. Within minutes, gigantic black rain clouds accumulate above the mountains, miles high, and dispense raindrops as big and heavy as kitchen stoves. A single one of these raindrops can fill a bathtub or slay an elk. Millions of flashes of lightning per second turn night into day, darting in directions from which normal electrical discharges are debarred. Long, thin thunderbolts go hissing into valleys and send up cascades of white sparks; others, wide as streets, cleave whole mountain peaks in half. Bolts of globe lightning fall to earth like spinning comets. Huge explosions at their point of impact create smoking craters filled with molten iron. The flashes of lightning take a wide variety of forms. Some undulate through the mountains like giant serpents, others are short and sharp like spears – they even quiver for a moment after piercing the ground. As for the accompanying thunder, it sounds as if demented giants are beating the iron mountains like a gong.

  What we were hearing were the first immense raindrops striking the hollow mountains and making them ring. Then the thunder started, amplified a thousandfold by the reverberating tunnel walls. I had never been exposed to such a din in all my life.

  For the first time, I was glad to be inside the Gloombergs. The elements were welcome to rage outside – I couldn’t have wished for better protection than the mountains’ miles-thick layers of iron. The Mountain Maggot was looking worried, however. It turned on the spot, emitting whimpering sounds, and seemed to be looking for something.

  ‘Eee! Oooh! Eee! Oooh! Oooh! Eee! Eee!’

  That such an immensely strong, almost invulnerable creature should be anxious made me anxious too. Why should it be scared of a thunderstorm when we were in the middle of a mountain?

  Gloomberg Tempest, The [cont.]. The Gloomberg Mountains are porous in structure, being perforated like a termites’ nest [→Mountain Maggot, The] by countless passages. Because many of these lead to the open air, the mountainsides afford the masses of water teeming down during a Gloomberg Tempest numerous apertures through which to penetrate the tunnels and wash them out. This is hygienically beneficial to the mountains but life-threatening to the creatures that inhabit them. Natural denizens of the Gloombergs like →Mountain Maggots and →Troglotrolls do, however, possess innate skills that enable them to survive under su
ch conditions. A Mountain Maggot, for example, can hold its breath for as long as two hours.

  I face death by drowning

  I was anything but a natural denizen of the Gloombergs, nor did I possess any innate skills that would have enabled me to survive under water. The fat, heavy raindrops began by collecting into rivulets, developed into streams as they ran downhill along the tunnels, and finally became raging torrents. At some points they filled whole passages like water rushing down a drainpipe. Not that I realized it yet, I was in mortal danger.

  The Mountain Maggot had found a projection in the tunnel wall and driven its steel claws into the rock. It clenched its powerful jaws and hugged the wall. This was a Mountain Maggot’s customary method of coping with a Gloomberg Tempest: it clung to the rock and held its breath until the flood subsided.

  The thundering masses of water propelled the air in the tunnels ahead of them, creating a shock wave that heralded the cataclysm to follow. It wasn’t until I felt the wind in my fur that I sensed that something very unpleasant was coming my way. Then, with the roar of a subway train entering a station, the flood came racing around the bend.

  Preceded by a circular plug of foam, it sped towards me, washed over the Mountain Maggot and thundered on in my direction. I took to my heels, but the water closed over my head almost immediately.

  Under water

  I’m good at holding my breath, but I can’t manage two hours. With the requisite preparation – a little meditation and some deep breathing exercises – I can hold my breath for up to twenty minutes. At sea you’re sometimes submerged by sizeable waves, or sucked under by a sinking ship, or swallowed by a whale, or carried down into the depths by a kraken. In short, good lung capacity is part of every seabear’s basic equipment. On this occasion, however, I’d had no opportunity to meditate – indeed, I didn’t even get a chance to draw a decent breath.

  From one moment to the next I was completely engulfed in liquid, a doubly shocking experience when you’ve long been living in extremely dry conditions. The flood propelled me through the maze of tunnels like a rifle bullet. A roaring sound filled my ears, and all I could see was an explosion of white sparks occasioned by the pressure of the water on my eyeballs. Then, because I wisely and instinctively shut my eyes, I couldn’t see anything at all. I sped through the darkness, blind and weightless, spinning round and round as I went. The air in my lungs slowly began to make its presence felt. When you breathe under normal circumstances, air is a welcome guest that keeps coming and going. Breathe in, and it enters the bronchial elevator, rides it down to the lungs, and takes a quick look round; breathe out, and it exits by the same route. In this instance the air remained imprisoned. After a while it seemed to expand, pressing against the walls of my lungs like a small, captive beast desperately seeking a way out. To take my mind off this unpleasant sensation I decided to open my eyes briefly. The water was surprisingly clear, being irradiated by the phosphorescence on the tunnel walls, and I could even see minute air bubbles dancing around my body in a frenzied ballet. Air bubbles! If each bubble contained some oxygen, several might contain a whole breath – and there were thousands of them! They might even be the remains of the puff of wind I’d encountered in the maze of tunnels. I had only to reach them and suck in the life-giving oxygen, so I puckered my lips into a short straw and performed a few contortions, manoeuvring my head into the vicinity of a string of whirling air bubbles.

  I had just reached the nearest of these life-saving globules of oxygen when the whole bunch put on speed. I followed them, swimming strongly, and closed with them once more. Only three strokes separated me from the nearest bubble. One … two … and … An eddy overtook me, captured the serpentine string of bubbles, and bore them off down a dark side tunnel.

  I yelled with disappointment, thereby expelling the last of the oxygen from my lungs. A submarine constricted by water pressure must experience the same sensation.

  Then I saw the Troglotroll. Or rather, I thought I saw the Troglotroll, because it was likelier to have been a hallucination conjured up in my brain by lack of oxygen. The creature drifted past me lying on its back with its hands clasped behind its head. It overtook me provokingly slowly, gave me an amiable smile, and waved before it vanished round a bend in the tunnel. No doubt about it: this was the end. My internal organs seemed to be inflated to bursting point. My eyes were bulging from their sockets, my ears roared as if I were standing at the foot of the Niagara Falls. I felt as if boiling water were flowing through my veins and collecting in my lungs. A violent fit of coughing assailed me.

  I was ready to give up. I would simply open my mouth and let the water in – anything was preferable to this torment. I opened my mouth and breathed in, prepared to die by drowning.

  But it wasn’t lethal water that filled my agonized lungs; it was clear, life – giving mountain air.

  The rainwater had found its own way out and sluiced me out as well – through the last hole the Mountain Maggot had made. I was free at last.

  The exit

  But at what a price! My exit was situated at an altitude of roughly five miles. I went plunging down like a fish trapped in a waterfall – a thin but very long waterfall. The view of Zamonia must have been magnificent, but I had no time to enjoy it. Such was the abrupt end of my life in the Gloombergs.

  So the transition from my sixth life to my seventh was a watery one. I continued my downward progress until there were only two miles to impact. This was a predicament that called for exceptionally careful coordination between my mental faculties and physical abilities.

  ‘Canned sardines,’ said a voice in my head.

  What?

  ‘Canned sardines.’

  It sounded like Professor Nightingale, but what was all this nonsense about canned sardines?

  ‘Knowledge is night,’ said Nightingale’s voice.

  Only a mile and a half to go. I could see that the waterfall ended in a lake. However, when you fall from such a height it makes no difference whether the surface you hit is concrete or water. It was a perfect opportunity for a Reptilian Rescuer, but there wasn’t one in sight. Perhaps I was in the grid square that had been left unsupervised by Mac’s retirement.

  ‘Tyrannosaurus Rex.’

  The encyclopedia in my brain seemed to be quoting headwords purely at random.

  ‘Knowledge is night!’

  Only a mile left.

  The professor had always used this aphorism as a way of steering our thoughts in every possible direction. What else had he said?

  ‘Canned sardines.’

  True, canned sardines. Canned sardines were very filling. They came in cans. The cans had to be opened. Nightingale had applied his intellect to that problem.

  ‘Bacteria.’

  Nightingale had infected me with his intellectual bacteria. Was he hinting that I myself was capable of similar mental feats? Another two thousand feet, at a rough guess.

  ‘Tyrannosaurus Rex.’

  The professor had turned into a dinosaur. Ergo, it was possible to transform oneself by the power of thought. Was I meant to turn into a dinosaur? Where was the sense in that? I would only become heavier and hit the water even harder. Eighteen hundred feet …

  ‘Canned sardines.’

  He meant me to turn into a sardine! A fish trapped in a waterfall … That made more sense. As a sardine I would be bound to survive the fall. But how had Nightingale done it? He had seven brains, I had only one.

  ‘Knowledge is night!’

  Darkness. Of course. Darkness enhances one’s intelligence. I shut my eyes.

  Fifteen hundred feet …

  I thought of sardines. A shoal of them appeared in my mind’s eye, gliding through the waterfall with me as we plummeted into the depths.

  Twelve hundred feet …

  The sardine trick

  I metamorphosed, but not into a sardine. I became a primordial cell, just as Nightingale had done in the course of our lesson. I grew bigger, developed into a multi
cellular organism, a tiny, glassy fish. Scales sprouted from my translucent skin, gills and powerful fins appeared. I felt myself filling up with bones. I inhaled the water like fresh air. I had turned into a sardine at last.

  The water gave a sort of jolt and a hurricane of air bubbles seethed around me. I had dived into the lake almost without noticing it. Eager to reach the surface, I struck out with my fins, but they weren’t fins any longer, they were my legs and paws. I surfaced and took a deep breath. I’d ceased to be a sardine, that was quite obvious, because my clothes and fur were sodden by the time I’d laboriously swum ashore.

  I wrung out my clothes and shook the water out of my fur. Naked and rather stiff but alive and contented, I sat down at the water’s edge and surveyed my surroundings. The lake was fringed with huge fir trees, and I greedily inhaled the fresh, resin-scented forest air. Fat rain clouds were still chasing each other across the sky, but the storm was over – indeed, the setting sun was blazing down through scattered rents in the clouds. I had every reason to feel pleased. Not only had I escaped from the maze of tunnels; I had cheated death twice over: death by drowning and by multiple injuries. What had happened?

  Had I really turned into a fish? Or had Nightingale used the encyclopedia to hypnotize me into behaving like one?

  Whichever, he had helped me to embark on a new life.

  From the

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

  by Professor Abdullah Nightingale

  Great Forest, The. The Great Forest owes its somewhat unimaginative name to the fact that no one wants anything to do with it, even in theory. It is simply avoided on principle. Everyone gives it a wide berth and advises everyone else not to set foot in it. The few people who have entered the forest in defiance of this advice have never been seen again. Many assert that the forest is inhabited by plant-sprites and leaf-witches; others surmise that it is a single evil being whose roots reach down to Hell and are watered by the Great Goat himself. Where these legends come from and on what factual circumstance they are based is unknown. The inhabitants of Zamonia have simply and tacitly agreed never to enter the Great Forest.