The 13.5 Lives of Captain Bluebear

by Walter Moers

  ‘So I’d been wrong and the quicksand was right: I was going to die with my lungs full of sand – deservedly so, what’s more! I had not only rejected the quicksand’s generous advice but offended it as well. I deserved to die.

  ‘“Nice of you to look at it that way,” the quicksand trickled into my ear, “but belated remorse won’t help you now. You’re done for, I’m afraid.”

  ‘“Is there nothing to be done?” I thought back. “Couldn’t you possibly solidify a little, so as to give me a foothold and enable me to struggle out?”

  ‘“Sorry, I’m a quicksand, not a slab of concrete or a lifebelt. Solidifying is completely against my nature. I warned you but you wouldn’t believe me, and this is the result. Oh, how I detest being right all the time! Now comes the smothered screams bit … Soon you’ll be just another of the many skeletons in my … Please forgive me, that was tactless! I’m afraid I really can’t do anything more for you, except …”

  ‘Except? That sounded like a glimmer of hope!

  ‘“Except what? Except what?” I demanded eagerly.

  ‘“Well … The most I can do is swallow you quicker. It speeds things up a bit. Many people prefer it. The dying part is just as unpleasant, but at least it doesn’t take so long.”

  ‘“Many thanks.”

  ‘“Don’t mention it.”

  ‘The quicksand was merciful. I sank still deeper into the morass.’ You could have heard a Minipirate’s harpoon drop. Thousands of pairs of eyes and one or two cyclopean orbs gazed at me. Smyke leant forward.

  And then something utterly unexpected happened – unexpected by me, not the audience: my breath gave out. It wasn’t the quicksand that took the wind out of my sails, it was my quicksand story. I had talked my way into this situation in the hope that something would, as usual, occur to me.

  But nothing did. This had never happened to me before.

  Panic-stricken, I looked across at Nussram Fhakir, who was regarding me derisively. His congladiatorial instinct told him that this was no pause for effect; I had simply lost my thread.

  The audience stared at me expectantly.

  Outwardly, I remained quite calm; inwardly, I searched my brain for an idea like someone rummaging in a drawer for a missing sock. Still nothing.

  Nussram leant forwards slightly, looking like a cobra poised to strike at any moment.

  Quicksand Moles, said the encyclopedia in my head. The message was so abrupt and surprising that I promptly recited it aloud:

  Quicksand Moles of Nairland, The. Insectivorous mammalian species distantly related to the Zamonian White-Bellied Lemming. Quicksand Moles are thickset burrowing animals with large, paddlelike, fossorial feet and little intellectual capacity. They live exclusively in the extensive quicksands of Nairland, and the ritual self-destructive behaviour they display at regular intervals is associated with Nairland’s most prominent geographical feature, the Molehill Volcano. Quicksand Moles attain a length of up to nine feet and can travel through quicksand like fish through water.

  ‘So I sank ever deeper into the quicksand!’ I cried, gazing around the auditorium. ‘All at once my feet touched something soft and furry! Before I knew it, I was seated on the back of a large animal. ‘“That’s a Quicksand Mole,” said the quicksand. “Can you hold out?”

  ‘“Not for much longer,” I telepathized. “I’m out of breath.”

  ‘“It’s your only chance. Hang on tight – the creature’s bound to be making for the volcano. It’s time again, I can tell from the tremors.”

  ‘I had no idea what it was time for, but I didn’t care. All I wanted was to extricate myself from the quicksand, because I really was running out of breath.

  ‘Agile as a dolphin, the mole glided through the quicksand so fast that it swirled around my ears. I clung tightly to the creature’s fur, determined not to let go until we surfaced. But we didn’t surface.

  We were diving still deeper.’

  We didn’t surface. We were diving still deeper …

  Great! I was talking my way still deeper into the mire. The audience gasped for oxygen.

  ‘Down and down we went at a steep angle. My last hour had come! I had only a single atom of breath left inside me, and both lungs were squabbling over it.

  ‘“You’re there!” the quicksand told me. “You’re off the hook – more by luck than judgement.”

  ‘And then, quite suddenly, we were out. Air! Oxygen at last!’

  Yes, at last. The audience breathed deeply.

  ‘What had happened?’ called an excited Norselander.

  What indeed? Good question. What had happened?

  I didn’t have a clue.

  ‘What had happened?’ I cried dramatically to the audience. ‘What had happened?’

  I feverishly racked my brains.

  ‘We had made our way through the quicksand to an underground cavern, that’s what had happened! We’d emerged into a huge air bubble beneath Nairland. More moles were standing around, all shouting at once:

  ‘“This is the place, this is the time! This is the place, this is the time!”’ Now that I was over the worst, I lied blithely on.

  ‘What place? What time? All I could tell was that we were in a sort of immense well shaft. The walls around us were of solid quicksand, and the shaft culminated in a circular hole through which daylight was coming. It must have been several hundred feet above me.

  ‘“This is the place, this is the time!” cried the moles.

  ‘“Place-ace-ace!” the walls threw back. “Time-ime-ime!”’

  I surveyed the amphitheatre once more. It was as silent as the Great Forest. Nussram was studying his fingernails with an ostentatious air of boredom, Smyke was conferring with Rumo the Wolpertinger. Chemluth signalled to me. He drew a finger across his throat to intimate that I should wind things up. No congladiator had ever spoken at such length.

  But I was just getting into my stride.

  ‘I asked one of the moles to explain. Not to burden you with the whole of his long, solemn discourse, which was interspersed with numerous digressions into the history of the Quicksand Moles, here is a brief summary: Molehill Volcano is an active volcano that erupts regularly every seven years on the seventh of the seventh at seven minutes past seven. There are a few pedants who claim that it actually does so at seven-tenths of the seventh second of the seventh minute past seven on the seventh of the seventh …’

  The audience groaned in torment.

  ‘… and so on,’ I said hastily, ‘but that’s irrelevant here. The fact remains that every self-respecting Quicksand Mole over the age of seven betakes himself to Molehill Volcano on that day.’

  Volcano … If there was one word that thrill-seeking audience found more entrancing than quicksand, it was volcano – just so long as you added that it was an active volcano on the point of engaging in its favourite activity: erupting. And to disclose the precise time at which an active volcano would erupt was one of the biggest favours you could do a bunch of duel-of-lies addicts. The turmoil in the stadium was steadily increasing. Even Nussram covertly cocked an eyebrow, but no one was paying any attention to him by this time. I lowered my voice and went on:

  ‘The volcano gave a mighty rumble. It sounded like a Bollogg gargling with a thundercloud. An ominous feeling welled up inside me like … like lava in a volcanic crater! I asked the mole what day of the month it was.

  ‘“The seventh of the seventh,” he replied.’

  I now did something unprecedented: I took a breather. No, not a pause for effect but a proper breather – a coffee break, so to speak. It had occurred to me that I still had a sandwich in my pocket. Chemluth had packed it so that I could fortify myself before the duel, but I’d forgotten all about it in my agitation. I ceremoniously unwrapped the sandwich and proceeded to eat it.

  The audience groaned and muttered. Smyke excitedly conferred with his advisers. Chemluth had pulled his cap down over his face. Although no intermissions were allowed for during a Duel of
Lies, they were not expressly prohibited. I had discovered a loophole in the regulations.

  I blithely continued to eat, chewing each mouthful seven times and pausing now and then – inserting breaks in the break, as it were. No one in the history of the Zamonian entertainment industry had ever dared to tease an audience in this manner.

  When I’d finished I neatly folded the greaseproof paper and put it in my pocket. Then I sat back on my throne, twiddled my thumbs, and hummed contentedly to myself as if I’d altogether forgotten where I was. Another minute, and they would lynch me.

  Then, quite suddenly, I shot out a paw at such lightning speed that the spectators almost fell off their seats.

  ‘THE VOLCANO ERUPTED!’ I cried. ‘And we were at its heart!’ A female Norselander in the front row fainted, but nobody took any notice.

  ‘The plug of congealed lava on which the moles and I were standing was propelled upwards by the volcanic eruption. It was … It was … How can one describe the sensation of being spewed out by a volcano?’

  I thought awhile.

  ‘It feels like being fired from a canon mounted on the back of a rocket in flight. The pressure to which we were subjected forced us down on to the lava plug. We were squeezed as flat as pancakes as the circle of daylight raced towards us, faster and faster. With us aboard, the plug shot ever higher into the air – many, many miles into the sky.’

  A very brief pause for effect.

  ‘Then, when the plug reached its apogee, a remarkable thing happened: we became detached from it and hovered there as if weightless. We were now so high that we could look straight into outer space, a pleasure usually denied to all but Megabolloggs.’

  My listeners could not, of course, know that I had enjoyed a Bollogg’s-eye view of the cosmos while seated at the dream organ, so they were highly impressed by my detailed description of our solar system. I was unstinting with my scientific data concerning the various planets, their surface structure and atmospheric pressure – all of it knowledge acquired at the Nocturnal Academy. Having tormented the audience for some half an hour with deadly boring astronomical details, I abruptly went on:

  ‘And then we started to fall.’

  Several spectators with weak nerves left the auditorium. Minor commotions broke out here and there, and bottles of smelling salts were handed around.

  ‘The Quicksand Moles uttered cries of delight. No wonder! Being blind, they couldn’t see what I could see: the earth rushing up to meet us – or us rushing towards it, whichever.’

  The Norselanders waggled their ears, a sign of extreme agitation. ‘The moles had spread their legs and were soaring around me, squeaking, like a flock of swallows. They really looked as if they were flying. And now comes the most surprising part: they really could fly.’

  Every jaw dropped.

  ‘Yes indeed, anyone can. Even you!’ I pointed to a female Norselander who was gazing at me open-mouthed.

  ‘The only requirement for someone learning to fly is sufficient altitude. Jumping off a roof or out of a captive balloon isn’t good enough. Only a volcano can propel you to the altitude you need in order to learn how to fly. The only trouble was, I was scared stiff. I’d wrapped my arms and legs tightly around me and was plummeting earthwards like a bullet. The moles couldn’t help me because they couldn’t see me. In order to fly, you have to spread your arms.’

  ‘Then spread them, you idiot!’ shouted an angry Bluddum in the upper circle.

  I had almost overdone the suspense. I would now have to give my listeners what they’d earned.

  ‘I spread my arms – and flew! No longer plunging earthwards, I circled slowly and majestically like an eagle as I made for the ground in a wide spiral. Some of the moles had already landed. Beneath me lay Grailsund, the town for whose mayor I was carrying an important message – the town where my sweetheart lived. I not only landed there as gently as a feather, I landed right on the lap of my beloved, who was sitting waiting for me in the garden. As I came in to land I felt in my pocket for the gold ring. What? I was sure I’d put it there, but no: no ring!’

  My female listeners cried out in dismay.

  ‘Had I lost it in the quicksand? Or in the volcano? During the flight? The possibilities were legion. Panic-stricken, I rummaged around in the grains of quicksand in my trouser pocket. Nothing. No ring!’

  The first handkerchiefs were being moistened. Sobs could be heard.

  ‘“Look in the other pocket,” advised the quicksand.

  ‘I felt in the other pocket, and sure enough, there it was! I removed it just before alighting on my sweetheart’s lap, and, while our lips met in a kiss, slipped it on her finger. And lo, it fitted perfectly.’

  Silence. Utter silence.

  The spectators were beside themselves, even the more refined among them. Seats were wrenched off their bases. The Megathon had never known such an ovation.

  It was a pretty good story, admittedly, but I hadn’t been counting on such a response. What I didn’t know at the time was that I had invented the happy ending, the romantic story with an upbeat dénouement.

  All Zamonian stories before my time, especially those told by congladiators, had either had no ending at all, just a punchline, or a tragic ending replete with misery, mourning, and murder. The hero died, the heroine died, the villain died, the king and queen died – together with all their subjects, of course. Every Zamonian story of the period culminated in the death of all concerned.

  How Dank Was My Valley, the dramatic regional novel by Psittachus Rumplestilt, ended with all the principal characters drowned by rain. Wilfred the Wordsmith’s most widely read novel, The Roast Guest, featured twelve thousand deaths alone, and several million more occurred in his whole œuvre, most of them in the last few pages. There were writers’ schools which not only taught that the entire cast of characters in every artistic work of fiction had to die but suggested the most subtle ways of accomplishing this: with sword or glass dagger, poison or faked accident, disease or act of God. Every author vied with his confrères to devise the most bloodthirsty, tragic and corpse-strewn finales, and those who succeeded were hailed as geniuses.

  Literary prizes were awarded for the novel with the most downbeat ending. In many Zamonian theatres the spectators in the first few rows wore washable clothing because most stage productions showered them with artificial blood. Any authors presumptuous enough to submit novels with non-tragic endings were booted out of their publishers’ offices.

  I was satisfying a need of which my listeners had been quite unaware. Handkerchiefs were produced throughout the auditorium and tears of joy shed over my story’s happy outcome. Many spectators were embracing one another, half laughing, half weeping. Chemluth was dancing a little rain-forest jig.

  Only two people showed no emotion. One was Volzotan Smyke, who simply stared at me with his cold, sharklike eyes while his toadies jabbered excitedly. The other was Nussram Fhakir the Unique. If I had impressed him, he certainly didn’t show it. He gazed impassively at the spectators and waited for them to subside. I had only won one round, after all, whereas he had ten to his credit. To repeat:

  A Duel of Lies continued until one of the contestants resigned. The number of rounds and their duration were not laid down. Many rounds were over in five minutes, others lasted an hour, and there had been duels that went on for forty rounds.

  Ours was destined to last ninety-nine.

  Rounds 12-22

  Every one of the next eleven rounds went to me. The spell had been broken, Nussram’s home advantage was forgotten, and the tide of public sentiment turned in my favour. It wasn’t that my opponent did badly. His stories were as brilliant as ever, but I always beat him by a point or two.

  To be honest, I continued to gamble on the females in my audience. All my ensuing lies had a romantic flavour. They told of grand passions, eternal loyalty, lovers’ vows, dramatic partings, broken hearts. All had a happy ending, and all featured a ring. When the females applauded, their escorts app
lauded even more loudly to please them. After eleven stories, however, I ran out of plots that could be interwoven with the romantic bestowal of gold rings. Besides, the audience’s interest in lovesick princesses was noticeably waning.

  Rounds 23-33

  Sensing that his moment had come, Nussram Fhakir switched to quite another thematic field: Zamonian demonology. This was one of his specialities, as I knew from reading his autobiography. There were more demons in Zamonia than anywhere else in the world, and Atlantis had the highest concentration of them.

  A lesson in Zamonian demonology

  There were Mountain Demons, Earth Demons, Air Demons, Water Demons, Animal Demons, Swamp Demons, Sedge Demons, Moss Demons, Dwarf Demons, Megademons, and the aforementioned Rickshaw Demons. Even if he wasn’t a demon himself, every inhabitant of Atlantis was acquainted or friendly with, or married or related to, one or more of the creatures.

  The public attitude towards demons had changed over the years. All they had done in former times was terrorize and intimidate other life forms, prowl around mainly at night, ambush travellers in forests, howl in chimneys on stormy nights, scare children, and so on. As the demon population steadily increased, however, so their mischief-making became routine. It was quite unexceptional for a Three-Tongued Moss Demon with a bloodstained axe lodged in his skull to peer over the foot of your bed, wailing like a nocturnal phantom, when you retired for the night.

  People walking in the woods were no longer startled when a gnome jumped out from behind a tree and pulled awful faces at them. Not even children took fright when Coal Demons rampaged around beneath the cellar stairs. The inhabitants of Zamonia had gradually become inured to demons. No one was afraid of them any more.

  The demons’ behaviour itself underwent a change. They adapted to social conventions, took ordinary jobs, and fitted into the urban scene. Before long it became commonplace to buy your bread from a demon or have one pull you through the streets in his rickshaw. There were demons in every bowling club and choral society. They swept the streets and sat on the city council. Even some of the most celebrated gebba players and congladiators were demons.