by Walter Moers
‘Aren’t we all?’ Brushing aside his question with a tentacular gesture expressive of boredom, the monster continued its self-revelation. ‘In the end, I grew a little weary one day and decided to lean against this wall—only for a moment.’
The skull gave a deep, dry cough.
‘Well, as you can see, I’m still here many, many years later, so something crucial must have happened to me in the meantime, mustn’t it?’
Gustave nodded, but this time not just for courtesy’s sake. He was genuinely interested to see what the monster was leading up to.
‘I’d begun to worry! I’d begun to question the meaning of my existence! Can you imagine? The fact is, Anxiety was beginning to worry! Not a particularly clever career move, my boy, I see that now, because it was then that I lost my pre-eminent status as the Most Monstrous of All Monsters.’
‘But isn’t a touch of self-doubt a good thing at times?’ Gustave asked, just to keep the conversational ball rolling.
‘Doubt?’ exclaimed the monster. ‘I’m not talking about a healthy dose of scepticism, my young friend! No, I didn’t doubt, I worried, and they’re as different as … as thinking and dreaming. I started to worry about everything, absolutely everything! I worry about my health, about the future, about the present—even about the past, which is a particularly futile occupation.’
The death’s-head emitted a rattling laugh. ‘Yes, I started worrying, and that has made me what you see today: dead, dried-up timber, bone, horn, stone, teeth without nerves, eye sockets devoid of eyes.’ The monster threw up its wooden tentacles in despair. They trembled pitifully, outlined against the night sky, then collapsed and dangled there inert. The spider came crawling back up the wall and disappeared into the eye socket. The bony skull’s lament culminated in a long, inarticulate sigh.
‘This really can’t be the Most Monstrous of All Monsters,’ Gustave told himself, ‘it’s far too much of a cry-baby. I’m only wasting time here.’
‘You’re only wasting time here, my boy,’ the monster said softly. ‘I’m sure I’m boring you with my tales of woe.’
Gustave gave a start. He had a nasty feeling that the monster had looked straight into his head.
‘But perhaps I can give you something to take on your way,’ the creature went on. ‘It’s nothing much, philosophically speaking, just a piece of sound advice: Make the most of every moment!’
Gustave had read similar well-meant proverbs on calendars.
‘Yes, I know, you’ve read similar well-meant proverbs on calendars, haven’t you? Still, it can’t be repeated too often.’
‘I’ll make a note of it,’ Gustave said politely, slowly beginning to back away.
‘No, I’m not the Most Monstrous of All Monsters, not any more.’ The monster might have been talking to itself. ‘I’m still pretty monstrous, but only moderately so by local standards. I’m neither as pathetically unmonstrous as those absurd twin-headed giant snails on the hillsides above this valley, nor as humongously monstrous as the Knight-Eating Giant Saurian of Lake Blue-Blood. Me, I’m only averagely monstrous.’
Gustave was suddenly galvanised. He came to a halt.
‘The Knight-Eating Giant Saurian of Lake Blue-Blood?’ he said. ‘That sounds interesting. Sounds as if it could really be the Most Monstrous of All Monsters.’
‘Well, that’s what it claims to be.’
‘Really? Can you tell me where to find the creature?’
‘It’s quite simple. At the end of the valley, you must ride up into the hills and under the Weeping Waterfalls to Groaning Glen. From there you make your way across the Plain of the Terrible Titans to the Malodorous Mountains. Lake Blue-Blood is situated at their most malodorous point.’ The monster drew a deep, whistling breath.
‘Many thanks,’ said Gustave.
‘You’re welcome.’ The monster dismissed this expression of gratitude by waving one of its tentacles. ‘But before you go: Didn’t you wonder, while listening to my story, whether there was some kind of point to it?’
Gustave gave a tight-lipped smile. ‘Oh, I enjoyed it anyway, point or no point.’
‘That’s good, because there wasn’t one.’
Gustave stumbled backwards for a few steps, grinning and waving goodbye. Then he turned, hurried across the ruins to his horse, and climbed into the saddle. Pancho trotted off. As for the monster, it relapsed into its former immobility and became a lonely monument to melancholy once more.
THEY RODE ON through the Valley of the Monsters for a long way yet. Their route took them past more dismal ruins and withered vegetation, over countless skeletons, both animal and human, and through the scuttling, squeaking swarms of rats and insects that seemed to have made the rubble-strewn plain their own. But they encountered no more monstrosities apart from two twin-headed giant snails grazing peacefully in the mist at the end of the valley next morning. Between them lay a steeply ascending track that led out of the valley and into the mountains.
Once across the first mountain pass, they were confronted by an awe-inspiring sight: a dark ravine, narrower than the first but considerably deeper. It was enclosed by jagged crags above and filled with billowing clouds of vapour below. Dozens of waterfalls cascaded down the sheer walls of rock, thundering like a never-ending storm and pattering like perpetual rain. Blue-black birds circled above the swirling spray, croaking eerily.
‘These must be the Weeping Waterfalls,’ said Gustave. ‘Not a very pleasant spot, but we’ve got to get past it somehow.’
‘Not very pleasant is putting it mildly,’ remarked Pancho, who hadn’t failed to notice that their route led beneath the waterfalls. Little more than an arm’s-breadth wide, it was an uneven ledge interspersed with puddles and slippery with lichen. ‘I hope this proves worth the effort,’ he added sulkily.
‘It had better,’ said Gustave. ‘My life is at stake.’
‘So is mine,’ the horse retorted as it teetered along, cautiously testing each foothold in turn.
Their route led upwards, then downwards. On and on they went along the slippery ledge, a sheer drop on their right and the wall of rock on their left. From time to time they had no choice but to plough straight through a waterfall, and Gustave’s armour soon filled with gurgling, ice-cold water. Then came a long uphill stretch that made Pancho curse incessantly. At last the rocks suddenly parted to disclose a view of some lush mountain meadows. The grassland sloped down, undulating gently, to a valley through which, to judge by the faint murmur that filled the air, a stream was flowing.
‘That must be Groaning Glen!’ Gustave exclaimed.
Pancho looked relieved. ‘It doesn’t seem such a depressing place. I can’t hear any groans.’
He stumbled on and, sure enough, they came to a crystal-clear stream flowing through a birchwood gilded with sunlight. Twittering songbirds circled overhead, butterflies and dragonflies fluttered and whirred through the air. Pancho trotted over to the stream to quench his thirst, Gustave dismounted and did likewise. When he swung himself into the saddle once more, he noticed a many-turreted castle perched on a hill overlooking the valley.
‘We seem to be back in civilised parts,’ he said, wondering how he was going to find the lake-dwelling Most Monstrous of All Monsters in such peaceful surroundings. The countryside seemed to be completely monster-free. ‘Perhaps we should pay a visit to that castle up there. Perhaps it’s the home of a wise king or a beautiful princess or some other person who can tell us the way to Lake Blue-Blood.’
‘Oh, naturally,’ sighed Pancho as he trotted off again, making for the castle. ‘Of course it’s the home of a wise king or a beautiful princess—both, probably, and they’re baking you a cake at this very moment.’
But the higher they climbed the further the castle seemed to recede. Repeatedly obscured by dense swathes of mist, it vanished and reappeared in turn, but they never got close enough to make out more than an alluring silhouette. Then the cotton-wool mist swallowed it up altogether. When the mist finally dispersed, Gustave saw
that what he had mistaken for a castle was just a bizarre chain of towering crags that bore only a vague resemblance to turrets and battlements.
‘Hm, I hesitate to tell you this,’ Pancho observed, ‘but we’ve been fooled by a fata montana—a mountain mirage.’ They had halted on a rocky plateau, bare except for a few clumps of grass.
Gustave groaned.
‘It’s quite a common phenomenon at high altitudes,’ Pancho explained. ‘The mountains’ resemblance to architectural features, which is often quite pronounced, coupled with poor visibility, the effect of thin air on one’s optical nerves, and the suggestibility of the brain, frequently give rise to hallucinations which—’
‘Oh, shut up!’ snapped Gustave, and silenced the horse by digging his spurs into its flanks. Pancho’s pseudoscientific remarks were beginning to get on his nerves.
For some time now, they had been riding across a highland plateau strewn with isolated boulders. They had lost all sense of direction, and Gustave was afraid they were going in a circle. Thin shreds of mist floated among the rocks, grey banks of cloud drifted overhead. Raven-hued birds of frightening dimensions circled above the plain in search of prey. The light was fading fast, and not the smallest sign of civilisation could be discerned anywhere. Gustave and Pancho were dispirited by hunger and fatigue.
‘This is a stone desert,’ the horse remarked. ‘You won’t find any cakes here.’
‘ To tell the truth,’ sighed Gustave, ‘I’d counted on spending the evening over a good dinner in the semi-civilised company of some lords and ladies. Roast goose and all the trimmings—something of that kind. Maybe a little background music for strings as well.’
‘I don’t go in for meat-eating, nor for decadent aristocrats, nor for the noises produced by horsehair scraping catgut,’ Pancho retorted. ‘Mind you, a nosebag of oats wouldn’t come amiss.’
They rode doggedly on, and Gustave noticed after they had gone a little way that the rocks were emitting a strange light. They glittered like certain crystals or metals, and the entire plain looked as if it had been dusted with silver. Before Gustave could broach the subject to Pancho, however, a rumbling sound filled the air. The huge boulders started to move and the hard ground trembled underfoot as it might have done in a moderate earthquake. Rolling around and piling up in defiance of every law of nature, the rocks formed themselves into sculptures resembling gigantic snowmen. Then they seemed to soften, liquefy like lava, and take on human form.
Faces appeared in the liquid rock; hands, legs and arms took shape; eyes protruded and teeth were bared; shaggy hair sprouted, thick and stiff as wire. Within moments, six huge figures were standing there. Uncouth, muscular giants, each of whom must have been three times the height of a man, they had wild, unkempt beards and were carrying axes and clubs in their mighty fists.
Gustave and Pancho froze. Of course! the barren plateau they were crossing could only be the Plain of the Terrible Titans!
‘I am Giant Emashtimact!’ boomed one of them, barring Pancho’s path.
‘I am Giant Ogliboy!’ called another.
‘I am Giant Hyposhilop!’
‘I am Giant Somytrona!’
‘I am Giant Scisyhp!’
‘And I am Giant Elyogog!’
The giants had surrounded Gustave and Pancho while introducing themselves.
It suddenly occurred to Gustave that he had to guess their names. ‘I’d completely forgotten,’ he thought. ‘Of course, it’s Task Number Three!’
The giants drew nearer, brandishing their weapons.
‘What do you want with us?’ Gustave asked, all innocent, while feverishly wondering how to get the better of these unmistakably stronger opponents.
‘You must guess our names!’ the giants called in unison.
‘That’s easy,’ Gustave replied. ‘Emashtimact, Ogliboy, Hyposhilop, Somytrona, Scisyhp, and Elyogog. You introduced yourselves just now.’
‘Damnation!’ swore Elyogog.
‘Hell!’ grumbled Emashtimact.
The six giants stood there for a moment, looking foolish and exchanging helpless glances. Then they put their heads together, muttering. At length they all shouted ‘Of course!’ and turned back to Gustave. Ogliboy elbowed his way to the fore.
‘Those, er, weren’t our real names,’ he announced. ‘They were, er, anagrams.’
‘Quite so, they were only anagrams,’ Emashtimact chimed in. ‘Not our real names.’
‘Our real names are quite different.’
All the giants nodded eagerly.
‘Anagrams?’ asked Gustave. He’d heard the word before, but he couldn’t immediately place it.
‘Anagrams are words in which the original letters have been rearranged,’ Pancho whispered. ‘These giants are intellectuals, I’m afraid.’
‘We certainly are,’ Ogliboy confirmed. ‘We’re scientists, in fact.’
Emashtimact kicked him hard on the shin.
‘You idiot!’ he hissed.
‘Aha!’ Pancho whispered. ‘Scientists! That was an unintentional tip. They aren’t just intellectuals, they’re brainless intellectuals.’
Gustave thought it over: Rearranged letters … Scientists … Emashtimact, Ogliboy, Hyposhilop, Somytrona, Scisyhp, Elyogog. Hm …
‘May I ask questions?’ he enquired politely.
‘Yes, that’s part of the game,’ Hyposhilop replied.
‘Do you have to answer them truthfully?’
‘Yes, worse luck. But only with yes or no.’
‘Good,’ said Gustave. ‘First question: do you use instruments in your scientific work?’
‘Yes!’ Somytrona blurted out. ‘I, for example, use a huge telescope! I’ve been observing you through it for ages. We can see everything from our castle in the clouds,’ he added proudly, and levelled his huge forefinger at the fairy-tale building Gustave had spotted from the bottom of the valley. It had reappeared, curiously enough, complete with all its turrets and battlements, which were now only thinly wreathed in mist. But Gustave had no time to marvel.
‘Nothing escapes me!’ Somytrona boomed. ‘My telescope magnifies things a hundred billion times. I could even see an ant urinating on Saturn.’
‘Are there ants on Saturn?’
‘Of course,’ Somytrona replied, somewhat more affably now. ‘There are ants everywhere. Admittedly, the ones on Saturn have three heads and urinate mercury, but …’
A telescope. Scientists. Somytrona. Mostronya. Yanostrom. Somynator. Antymoros. Ramostony. Ostyomarn …
‘You own a telescope and observe the stars. Somytrona, your real name is Astronomy!’
‘Damnation!’ said Astronomy. The other giants shook their fists at him for being such a blabbermouth.
‘Now you,’ Gustave commanded sternly, pointing to Ogliboy.
Yolibog. Iblygoo. Loygibo …
‘You! Do you have a telescope too?’
‘No!’ Ogliboy said triumphantly. ‘I have a microscope!’
‘Shut up, you fool!’ bellowed the other giants. ‘You only need say yes or no.’
‘So you’ve got a microscope,’ Gustave reasoned. ‘Do you also use it to observe ants on Saturn?’
‘No! With my microscope I observe ants on the earth!’
‘Aha!’ said Gustave. Possesses a microscope. Oiglybo. Boligoy. Ligoboy. Observes ants. Bygiloo. Loibygo. Ibogoyl …
‘Ogliboy, your name is Biology!’
‘Confound it!’ Biology exclaimed. He kicked the nearest rock so hard, it shattered into a thousand fragments.
‘You’re next!’ Gustave pointed to the strongest and dirtiest-looking giant.
‘Elyogog, you look the strongest—you’ve got the biggest calluses on your hands and the most dirt under your boots. Are your hands and feet your most important tools?’
‘Er, yes, as a matter of fact,’ Elyogog was compelled to admit.
‘Touché!’ Pancho said admiringly.
Oglygoe. Legoyog. Eglogoy …
‘Do you like
grubbing around in the dirt?’
The giant blushed and bowed his head.
‘Yes,’ he said.
Likes grubbing around in the dirt. Yologeg. Oyglego. Golygoe …
‘And the dirt on your boots—you like walking. Do you get around a lot?’
‘Yes,’ muttered the giant.
Yogoleg. Gets around a lot. Goylego. Yelgogo. Olygoge …
‘Your name is Geology!’
‘Correct,’ growled Geology. The other giants booed him.
Gustave pointed to the next giant. He was beginning to like this game.
‘You, Emashtimact, what tools do you use?’
‘You’ll have to guess that yourself. I’m only answering yes or no.’
‘That’s right!’ cried the other giants. ‘You tell him!’
‘Aha,’ said Gustave. ‘You work in a logical way. Yours is a very exact science, am I right?’
‘Yes, correct.’
‘Good. Do you use a metronome?’
Emashtimact laughed. ‘Never!’
Metasmicath …
‘A sextant?’
‘Not that either.’
Mamethastic …
‘A Bunsen burner?’
‘Wrong again.’
Masthmacite …
‘How much is six hundred and twenty-four thousand five hundred and twenty-eight divided by two hundred and thirty-six?’
‘I’m not saying,’ Emashtimact retorted defiantly. ‘I only answer questions you can answer with a yes or a no.’
‘Hm,’ said Gustave. ‘Then answer me this: Could you tell me what six hundred and twenty-four thousand five hundred and twenty-eight divided by two hundred and thirty-six makes?’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Emashtimact.
‘Oh, no you couldn’t!’
‘Oh, yes I could!’
‘I don’t believe you,’ said Gustave. ‘No one could do a sum like that in their head.’
‘I don’t have to!’ cried the giant. ‘I’ve got my slide rule for that!’ Without thinking, he produced a wooden slide rule from his pocket and triumphantly brandished it aloft.
Stahimemtac. Ishmatectam. Tactamemish …
‘So you use a slide rule … Then your name is Mathematics.’
