by Walter Moers
Rumo was reminded of Smyke’s riddle: What grows shorter and shorter the longer it gets? He still hadn’t found the answer.
The ambush
Rumo was rather proud of his newly acquired knowledge of the alphabet. Lately, when walking home from school with Urs in the evening, he’d taken to reading out every sign they passed.
‘Well? How was it in the dungeon?’
‘Municipal Bakery.’
‘Care for a frankfurter?’
‘Hoth Boulevard.’
‘I think I’m going to give up the sausage factory and start work at the bakery. I’m getting sick of sausages.’
‘Zaruso & Sons, Timber Merchants.’
‘Maybe I should get a job in the communal kitchen.’
‘No fly-tipping!’
‘Or a restaurant of my own – that would be best. I’ve already got a whole folder full of recipes. All invented by me.’
‘Clean your teeth five times a day!’
‘What Wolperting needs is some Florinthian cuisine. Our local nosh is so utterly unrefined.’
‘Leatherwear of all kinds.’
‘I’d screw chessboards to the tables. Then the customers could go on playing during their meals and wouldn’t have to stop eating.’
‘Fire Station! Keep Clear!’
‘You could be my partner. I’ll cook, you wash up and eject the drunks. We’ll go fifty-fifty. If the joint does well we’ll open a whole chain of restaurants: “Chez Urs and Rumo”.’
‘Hoth Avenue.’
‘Or “Chez Rumo and Urs”, if you prefer. Florinthian cuisine – that’s the gap in the market. Light and sophisticated is the coming trend.’
‘Danger! Fast-flowing river, bathing prohibited!’
‘Hey, have you been listening to a word I say?’
‘Municipal Laundry.’
‘How’s the spelling going? Making progress?’
They took the usual short cut via Laundry Lane, the alleyway running behind the municipal laundry, an area Wolpertings tended to shun because the detergents’ acrid fumes offended their keen sense of smell. Rumo and Urs were holding their noses as usual, so they failed to detect what awaited them round the next bend. There, standing amid some big baskets brimming with dirty laundry and looking studiously offhand, were Rolv and his gang: Vasko of the Red Forest, Balla of Betaville and Olek of the Dunes.
‘An ambush!’ Urs hissed.
The foursome sauntered into the middle of the alley, barring their path.
‘What do you want?’ Urs demanded.
‘Nothing to do with you,’ said Vasko, ‘so stay out of this.’
‘We’ll see about that,’ Urs replied quietly. Rumo was surprised by his menacing tone of voice.
‘Cool it, Urs,’ said Balla. ‘We aren’t involved either. This is just between Rolv and Rumo.’
Rolv grinned. ‘And this time there’s no Rala around to let you off the hook. If you want to get past you’ll have to go through me.’
‘Hold this,’ said Rumo. He handed Urs his satchel. Vasko, Balla and Olek retired to the pavement while Rolv performed some limbering-up exercises.
‘All right, get cracking!’ cried Olek. ‘Wolpertingian street-fighting rules apply: no weapons, no teeth. Everything else goes. The fight lasts till one of you gives up. Time!’
The battle of Laundry Lane
Had there existed a secret history of Wolperting, a chronicle of all the memorable events that had occurred in the city’s backyards and gloomy alleyways, cellars and ruins, it would undoubtedly have included several chapters devoted to the Black Dome. There would have been one section that solved the mystery of the notch in the mayor’s head and another that explained how Hoth contrived to populate a deserted city with nothing but Wolpertings. There would also have been an account of the wooden-sword fight waged some fifty years earlier by the Reds and the Blacks, two rival gangs of schoolboys, and a detailed description of the three-day duel with raw eggs which Ornt El Okro, then in his youth, had fought with Hacho of the Wolves. As for the fight between Rumo and Rolv, it would have gone down in the city’s secret annals as The Battle of Laundry Lane. Unfortunately, however, no such history existed.
To call their fight a battle was justified if only because all who witnessed it gained the impression that the combatants numbered a dozen, not just two. The strength, stamina and endurance displayed by both parties would have sufficed to put an army of Werewolves to flight. This clash amid the acrid fumes of Laundry Lane seemed less between two creatures of flesh and blood than between two elemental forces or evil spirits endowed with supernatural powers.
It might have been fair to give Rolv a one-point handicap during the preliminaries, not only because of his friends’ yells of encouragement but because he had mastered various tactics of which Rumo still knew nothing. Rolv hit hard and often, and he was shrewd enough not to neglect his own guard. He was immensely skilled at ducking and weaving, so most of Rumo’s punches missed their mark.
But Rumo did not make the mistake of losing his temper. He took Rolv’s punches and absorbed them without flinching, and it wasn’t long before he had the measure of his well-trained opponent. He became accustomed to his speed and his tricks, had gauged his strength and its limits. Rumo was a good scrapper by nature and this scrap was teaching him a great deal.
Increasingly thwarted by Rumo’s more effective guard, Rolv was not only landing fewer punches but sustaining some painful blows himself. It was as if the two of them had swapped roles. Rumo was returning each of Rolv’s attacks with interest, imitating his movements perfectly, appropriating his technique. Now it was Rolv’s turn to suppress his mounting fury. One punch connected so unerringly with his left eye that it swelled up within seconds. His friends’ shouts of encouragement were definitely growing fainter, whereas Urs’s were steadily increasing in volume.
Rolv sensed that a change of tactics was indicated, so he tried to embroil Rumo in a wrestling match on the ground, never suspecting that his opponent was better equipped in that respect. Here, where swift reflexes counted for more than technique, Rumo enjoyed an advantage from the start. His lightning holds were harder to break, his limbs more supple, his strength and stamina greater. They rolled around in the dirt, growling and snarling, knocking over laundry baskets and tumbling down the cellar steps, but Rolv always ended up in a headlock or flat on his back, with Rumo sitting on his chest and bombarding him with punches.
Rolv realised that he was bound to acquire another black eye sooner or later, so he broke off the wrestling match and switched to a form of fighting at which he was the best in the school: kick-boxing. Scrambling to his feet, he adopted the basic kick-boxing position: legs slightly bent, shoulders back, both fists at eye level.
‘Now I’m going to finish you,’ he announced.
‘I’m waiting,’ Rumo retorted.
‘Now you’re for it!’
‘I’m still waiting.’
‘I’m going to make you eat dirt!’
‘I’m still waiting.’
They were both breathing heavily and their fur was sodden with sweat. They circled each other for a while, recouping their energies as they continued their dialogue in the same vein.
‘Now I’m going to show you the difference between a civilised Wolperting and a wild one,’ Rolv said menacingly. ‘I’ll show you what you can learn in school if you pay attention.’
Rumo got ready for another furious exchange of punches, only to encounter a sudden flurry of kicks. Rolv used his fists only in order to retain his balance while lashing out with his feet. He launched these attacks in a variety of ways: standing, leaning backwards, lying on the ground, leaping, rotating his body, scything the air with his leg. The kicks landed with the force of a battering ram. Laundry Lane resounded to a series of dull thuds as they bit into Rumo’s body. Urs winced as his friend was knocked about like a lifeless straw doll. Blow followed blow in such quick succession that he had no chance to protect himself adequately.
Rolv ran t
hrough his entire repertoire. He kicked Rumo in the back, in the stomach, on the shins – he kicked him wherever he chose and as hard as he could, but one thing he failed to do: he couldn’t put his opponent down for good. Rumo struggled to his feet every time, puffing and blowing but always with his wits about him. Urs wished he would abandon the fight and spare himself further punishment.
Rolv resorted to his fists again. Rumo was subjected to a volley of punches from all directions: left, right, above, below. He had also sustained a black eye by now, and had almost ceased to fight back. He was merely endeavouring to stay on his feet and protect his head while Rolv belaboured his body like a punchbag.
Vasko, Balla and Olek were urging their friend on again, and their cries redoubled the speed of his onslaughts. Simply unable to watch any more, Urs averted his gaze for the first time – and missed the best punch of the entire fight: a perfect uppercut from Rumo that landed smack on Rolv’s chin. Rolv took three unsteady steps backwards, fought to clear his head for several seconds, and just stood there with his knees buckling.
Now they were both in dire straits. Rolv had expended all his energy and escaped defeat by a hair’s breadth; Rumo had conserved his strength but taken innumerable punishing blows to the body. Ponderously, they went for each other again.
Darkness had fallen by now. The laundry was shut and everyone who worked there had gathered in the lane to watch the spectacle. Torches had been kindled and their light sent Rolv’s and Rumo’s huge shadows dancing across the whitewashed walls. Utterly exhausted, they relapsed into a war of words – a contest in which neither displayed much talent or imagination.
‘I’ll get you!’
‘Come on, then!’
‘Don’t worry, I will!’
‘All right, I’m waiting!’
‘Yellow-belly!’
‘Yellow-belly yourself!’
‘Chicken!’
‘Chicken yourself!’
‘Scaredy-cat!’
‘Scaredy-cat yourself!’
Urs had grown tired of watching. He toyed with the idea of knocking them out with a coal shovel, so peace would at last be restored and they could all go home. Before long, however, no such measure seemed necessary because Rolv and Rumo had tripped over their own feet. They circled one another at a crawl, each trying for a necklock. The other spectators’ enthusiasm had also waned and some were already leaving the scene, yawning.
Rumo finally succeeded in getting a stranglehold on Rolv just as Rolv got him in a scissors hold. They remained in this position, motionless, for quite some time. Urs, Balla, Vasko and Olek eventually went over, intending to separate the pair before they could do each other any more damage. But Rumo and Rolv weren’t fighting any longer: they had fallen asleep in each other’s arms.
The outcome of the fight seemed clear, so most of the spectators had dispersed by now. The Battle of Laundry Lane was over. Balla and Olek carried Rolv home while Vasko helped Urs to put Rumo, who was snoring loudly, to bed.
The examination
When Rumo woke up the next morning he couldn’t at first account for all his aches and pains. He thought he was seriously ill until Urs came in with some coffee and refreshed his memory.
‘Who won?’ Rumo asked.
‘That remains to be seen. You really must get up and go to school. If you fail to show, everyone will interpret it as a victory for Rolv.’
‘I don’t think I can.’
‘I’ll help you. First have some coffee.’
Rumo hobbled to school leaning on Urs. Outside the gates they met Rolv, who was being carried rather than supported by Vasko and Balla. They made it to their places in class and slept through the first two periods, both of which were devoted to chess. The legend of the Battle of Laundry Lane was already spreading like wildfire, complete with a few preliminary exaggerations.
Next, Rumo dragged himself off to a lesson in the cellar. Although he could scarcely keep his eyes open, Oga of Dullsgard’s curiously solemn and silent manner wasn’t lost on him. Without a word she handed out some blank sheets of paper and pencils – and they all suddenly grasped that the crucial examination was imminent. None of them had been expecting it, and it couldn’t have come at a worse time for Rumo in particular. He could scarcely remember his own name.
The schoolmistress dictated a short text consisting of simple sentences: The cat drinks milk. The bird lays an egg. The chicken crosses the road. The Werewolf sleeps in the forest.
Rumo and his classmates wrote them down, panting and groaning as if engaged in some strenuous physical activity. Then Oga of Dullsgard collected their papers and sat down at her desk to correct them in silence. Her pen scratched away, lacerating their nerves, as the minutes crawled by. Rumo wondered if he’d spelt Werewolf correctly. Should it have been Wearwolf?
At long last Oga handed back the sheets of paper without a word, her grim expression seeming to imply that the whole class had failed miserably.
‘Well,’ she said as though accusing them of some inexpiable sin, ‘you’ve all passed the examination, but don’t go thinking you can now read and write. You have, however, acquired a tool that will enable you to decipher every word you come across. It’s in your heads. Look after that tool – look after it as carefully as you clean your teeth! The best way of doing that is to read. Read as much as you can! Read street signs and menus, read the notices outside City Hall, read trashy paperbacks for all I care, but read! Read, or you’ll be done for!’
Oga focused her dread gaze on each pupil in turn.
‘From tomorrow you’ll be allowed to take part in combat training. To those of you who may regard this as an honour or a pleasure I would say this: It’s neither one nor the other. Many of you will yearn for the days when you learnt to spell one-syllable words under my supervision, but by then it’ll be too late.’
Combat instruction
Rumo was allowed to take part in combat training the very next day, but that, too, could not have come at a worse time. Although he ached in every limb and could only see properly with one eye, he struggled gamely through the first few lessons – indeed, he would probably have attended class decapitated, with his severed head beneath his arm. After a week the bruises he’d acquired in the Battle of Laundry Lane began to fade, to be replaced by new ones sustained in training.
Kick-boxing, boxing, wrestling, aerial combat, fighting on all fours, biting – those were the unarmed combat disciplines. The ones that involved fighting with weapons were nocturnal fencing, axe wielding, ball and chain, crossbowmanship, archery and blind knife-throwing. Most of the pupils soon discovered what suited them and what didn’t. In Rumo’s own opinion he had a natural aptitude for every discipline. You had to master the rudiments of unarmed combat before embarking on weapons training. Physical control was the prime requirement. If you couldn’t master your own body you couldn’t master a weapon.
Rumo was surprised at all he had still to learn: holds, punches, kicks, leaps, defensive and disengagement techniques, tactics and teamwork. He had never applied himself to the fundamentals of movement or engaged in stamina-enhancing and limbering-up exercises. He was now taught how to flex his sinews, warm up his muscles, and run for hours without becoming winded. Training often took place outside the school. On their long endurance runs Rumo and his classmates became familiar not only with the forests, hills and fields around Wolperting, but also with the streets and steps, bridges and squares of Wolperting itself, and especially with the Great Wall, on which one could run right round the city. Training took place wherever conditions for a particular discipline were ideal. It was commonplace for pupils to be catapulted into the air in Hoth Square to teach them aerial combat. Citizens who crossed one of the bridges and found themselves in the midst of a mass riot had no need to alert the mayor’s office – it was just a collective limbering-up exercise. Battle-cries rent the air as youthful trainees sprinted along the alleyways of the inner city, loudly urged on by their instructors. The atmosphere of Wolperting
as a whole was coloured by combat training.
Rumo learnt to treat his own body like an extremely intricate, sensitive machine requiring careful maintenance. The functions of the bones, muscles, nerves and sensory organs were explained during lessons devoted to theory. Stances, holds, kicks, blows, leaps and defensive measures were drummed into the pupils’ heads. They had to memorise them with the aid of diagrams and learn their often bizarre names by heart: the Double Mitten, the Serpentine Stranglehold, the Narcotic Sledgehammer, the Lethal Butterfly Punch, the Cockerel Kick, the Twin-Fingered Thrust with Elbow Follow-Up.
One discipline to which everyone attached great importance was that of biting. Wolpertings regarded biting as the noblest and most natural form of combat, just as teeth were nature’s most precious gift. A fundamental distinction was drawn between bites intended to warn, grip, restrain, crush, tear, lacerate, and kill. Biting was one of Rumo’s favourite subjects.
He noticed that far from all Wolpertings took the same interest in combat training as he did. Those who were descended from more peaceable and easygoing canine breeds – the ones with pug faces or floppy ears – used to stand aside with their chessboards under their arms and pour scorn on those who enjoyed clobbering each other.
But there were plenty of pupils who distinguished themselves like him, displayed above-average ambition and did their utmost to come top of the class in one or more subjects. Rala, for instance, was an excellent archer. Rolv had a talent for knife-throwing that would have earned him a job in any circus. Balla excelled at aerial combat, Vasko was very proficient with the crossbow, and Olek’s forte was the sling, a weapon few Wolpertings rated highly.
Rumo was particularly good at Four-Legged Combat, a technique that had been developed at the school itself. In this discipline Wolpertings were taught how to return to their roots – how to use their arms like legs and their legs like arms. Rumo learnt that there was nothing magical about scaling the wall of a building; it was merely a question of practice.
