Rumo: And His Miraculous Adventures

by Walter Moers

  Wath was tath oxplesion?’ Gornab complained drowsily. ‘How am I ecpexted to seelp? Frist my deb shakes, neth the walls bivrate and now tish series of oxplesions! Wath’s gonig on?’

  Friftar had roused Gornab from a deep, drugged sleep. The little king had drained a medicine bottle whose contents should have knocked him out for three days.

  ‘They’re retreating!’ Friftar cried dramatically. ‘The Wolpertings are retreating – we’ve put them to flight!’

  ‘They’re … terreating?’ said Gornab, whose blurred speech was even harder to understand than usual. ‘The Tingerwolps are terreating? Si ti revo?’

  ‘Yes, it’s over,’ said Friftar. He lowered his voice. ‘That was the good news. The bad news is—’

  ‘You neam there’s dab swen?’ Gornab cut in, looking terrified. He pulled the covers over his head.

  ‘Well, there are a few items of news that aren’t quite so good. The Theatre of Death has been completely destroyed. General Ticktock is no longer with us and the Copper Killers have ceased to exist. Heavy casualties have been sustained, civilian as well as military. A Vrahok collapsed on top of a residential district.’ Friftar cleared his throat.

  Gornab rubbed his eyes.

  ‘Oh,’ he said with a yawn, ‘is tath all?’

  Friftar collected his thoughts. Now came the really tricky part. He looked grim.

  ‘Well, Your Majesty, I’m afraid it isn’t quite over. After all, the Wolpertings have destroyed our theatre and killed General Ticktock and countless soldiers and civilians, not to mention a Vrahok. We can’t let them go unpunished.’

  ‘No. Why ton?’ Gornab disappointedly shook the empty medicine bottle.

  ‘Because it would look bad in the history books. We must pursue the Wolpertings with the Vrahoks and destroy them once and for all.’

  Friftar was shaken by a sudden fit of coughing.

  ‘Wath’s wrong? Are you lil?’ Gornab raised his hand to ward off the germs.

  Friftar shook himself. ‘I don’t know … I fear I’m running a slight temperature.’

  ‘A ruteratemp? But you’ve vener been lil febore!’

  ‘I know … It’s nothing serious. A minor infection, probably.’

  ‘Nifection?’ Gornab gasped. ‘Peek your nifection away from me!’

  Friftar turned his back on the king with a handkerchief over his mouth and went on coughing. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to assume command of the Vrahoks yourself. We must avoid the risk of infection at all costs.’

  ‘You pecext me to mmocand the Hokvras?’ Gornab hardly dared utter the words.

  ‘Yes, definitely. You must command the Vrahoks. It’s essential for Your Majesty to show the population and the army how powerful you are, or we’ll invite a revolution. This may be only the start.’

  ‘Must I lleary?’ Gornab was hugging his pillow for protection.

  ‘In any case, Your Majesty, Hel will have little in the way of entertainment to offer you for the next few weeks. The theatre and parts of the city are in ruins. There’ll be a lot of unpleasant political commitments. Supervising clearing-up operations, delivering speeches, setting your subjects’ minds at rest. I could handle all those jobs for you in the meantime. We must also burn the corpses quickly to prevent an epidemic breaking out.’

  Friftar coughed even harder.

  ‘An emidepic?’ wailed Gornab, hugging his pillow even tighter. ‘I don’t want any emidepics!’

  He strove to concentrate. Suddenly, an excursion with the Vrahoks didn’t sound quite so unthinkable. Away from all this chaos! Away from riots, corpses, infections and epidemics!

  ‘It’ll be a picnic,’ said Friftar, ‘a triumphal procession. I’ll have you conducted to the Vrahoks right away. It’ll take a day or two to mobilise and hypnotise them all, but you won’t lack for luxury in the meantime. I shall have a big royal tent erected and send your staff to join you: personal chef, court jesters, storytellers, dancing girls – all that your heart could desire. What’s more, I shall give orders that you aren’t to be troubled with any problems.’

  Gornab gave a start. ‘Lemprobs? What srot of lemprobs?’

  ‘There won’t be any, Your Majesty, I assure you. I shall instruct the Vrahok drivers to erect a canopied throne on the back of the biggest Vrahok. Once the Wolpertings have been overtaken you’ll assume command, thereby ensuring that your name goes down in the annals as the king who quelled the Wolpertings’ insurrection. Having given orders for their destruction, you will sit on your throne and watch the spectacle from a safe altitude. After that you’ll return to Hel in triumph.’

  Gornab laughed. It all sounded very exciting. More fun than burning dead bodies.

  ‘It occurs to me …’ Friftar said in a low voice.

  ‘Wath?’ Gornab demanded. ‘Wath uccors to you?’

  ‘Now I come to think of it, you’ll be fulfilling the Red Prophecy.’

  ‘I lwil?’

  ‘But of course!’ Friftar smote his brow. ‘It’s your destiny!’

  ‘My nestidy?’

  ‘Yes indeed!’ Friftar cried excitedly. ‘How could I have been so slow on the uptake? It’s the fulfilment of the Red Prophecy! You’re the Gornab of all Gornabs! This is the beginning of a new era!’

  Gornab looked puzzled. ‘But the next Norgab will be the Norgab of Norgabs,’ he argued.

  ‘Not at all, Your Majesty! You’re the first Gornab, not the last! The alchemists must have made a mistake in their arithmetic – a translation error. By annihilating the Wolpertings you’ll be conducting the first official war against Overworld and fulfilling the prophecy. Then you’ll be Gornab the First, the Gornab of all Gornabs!’

  ‘Yes!’ cried Gornab. ‘I’ll be Norgab the Frist, the Norgab of all Norgabs!’ – and he punched his pillow in excitement.

  Friftar breathed a sigh of relief. He’d kindled the king’s enthusiasm at last.

  ‘The Norgab!’ crowed Gornab. ‘The Norgab of all Norgabs! Yes, yes! Take me to the Hokvras! I want to klil the Tingerwolps! Klil! Klil!’

  The music of life

  The Yetis and the Wolpertings had threaded their way in silence through the chaos surrounding the Theatre of Death, bound for General Ticktock’s tower. Chunks of the dead Vrahok and lengths of its evil-smelling intestines lay everywhere; Hellings and Homunculi were running around in confusion, too busy attending to their wounded to pay attention to the outsiders.

  Rolv and Rumo were confronted by an unenviable prospect on reaching the general’s dark tower: they intended to recover Rala’s corpse and take it back with them.

  While the others were discussing the best route home, they silently entered the tower.

  ‘She’s upstairs,’ said Rumo.

  They climbed the stairs to the Metal Maiden’s chamber. Rumo opened the door and stood aside to let Rolv pass.

  Rala was standing in the middle of the room, pale as a ghost, with sunken features and dark smudges under her eyes. Trembling all over and unsteady on her legs, she was being supported by Smyke and Professor Kolibri, who was just taking her pulse.

  ‘Ba-bumm, ba-bumm, ba-bumm,’ he said. ‘The music of life. It’s always nice to hear. A classic.’

  Rolv hurled himself at his sister and threw his arms round her; Rumo stood rooted to the spot. He found the sight of Rala as disconcerting as ever.

  ‘Surprised, eh, my boy?’ Smyke said with a grin. ‘The miracle of life! A miracle, I might add with the modesty so characteristic of me, in which I myself played a part. How did it go at the theatre? Everything ugo?’

  Rumo was still standing there as though thunderstruck.

  ‘Ugo?’ he said bemusedly.

  ‘Oh,’ said Smyke, ‘it’s just a figure of speech. I was asking if all went well.’

  ‘The theatre is in ruins,’ Rumo said dully. ‘My friends are free. General Ticktock is dead.’

  ‘Who’s General Ticktock?’ asked Rala.

  For a moment they all fell silent. Rumo and Rala stared at each othe
r like two sleepers awaking from the nightmare. Rumo felt for the casket in his pouch, then left it where it was.

  ‘We must get out of here,’ Rumo said. ‘We must take advantage of the confusion and leave the city.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Smyke. ‘There’s a lot to tell, but first let’s get out of this hideous city.’

  Yelma

  No one dared to oppose the Wolpertings and Yetis when they withdrew from Hel. The streets were dark and deserted. The few citizens to show their faces hurriedly disappeared into the shadows.

  Yukobak and Ribble led the column because they knew the shortest route out of the city. Following them came Skullop the Scyther and his men, and the Wolpertings formed the rearguard. Rumo caught up with Skullop because he wanted to ask him something.

  ‘Why did you follow me to Hel?’

  ‘Why?’ growled Skullop. ‘Why did I march into the Cogitating Quicksand? Because I’m an idiot.’

  ‘You can say that again!’ called a Yeti behind them.

  ‘Why, you ask?’ Skullop ground his black teeth. ‘I’ll tell you why. Certainly not for your sake. I did it for Yelma.’

  ‘Who’s Yelma?’ asked Rumo.

  ‘Well,’ Skullop began, ‘I thought about you for a long time after you left me, youngster. I went punting across that black lake, telling myself what a fool you were.’

  ‘Hm,’ said Rumo.

  ‘Then I burst out laughing. I laughed all day long, thinking about you and your crazy scheme. I mean, fancy going to Hel to rescue your sweetheart from a whole army of devils, all on your own? Man, how I laughed!’

  The Yeti behind Skullop bleated derisively.

  Rumo wasn’t so sure he really wanted to hear this story.

  ‘And then I wept,’ said Skullop. ‘Well, not really, because we Dead Yetis can’t shed tears. It’s more like a kind of dry cough, but it amounts to the same thing. I wasn’t weeping on your account, so don’t think I was! I’m a hard-hearted old Yeti who couldn’t care less what happens to anyone else. If my best friend – not that I have any friends! – got struck by lightning right beside me, I wouldn’t give a damn, understand?’

  Skullop turned his death’s-head and glanced at Rumo.

  ‘I understand,’ said Rumo.

  ‘No, I was weeping on my own account. I wept because I saw myself mirrored in you, not as old and dead and ugly as I am now, but as young and peppy as I used to be at your age.’

  Rumo nodded.

  Skullop’s voice had become higher and more youthful. ‘I was worth two, three – no, half a dozen Yetis rolled into one. I didn’t turn round to pee when the wind was blowing the wrong way – not me! Other Yetis existed, it was true, but they lived in my world and according to my rules, understand? I was Skullop the Scyther, and they knew I’d earned the nickname fair and square. My heart was on fire!’

  ‘You could put it that way,’ said the Yeti behind them.

  Skullop lowered his voice again. ‘At that time I was in love with a girl Yeti named Yelma. It’s a really sad story, so I’ll make it short: Yelma died. Some confounded disease carried her off in no time at all. If she’d gone to an evil kingdom full of devils, no matter where, I’d have dug there with my bare hands and brought her back, my Yelma! But there wasn’t any evil kingdom. She was dead, that’s all. Then I calmed down. I became calmer and older and, in the end, dead myself – or almost. Well, you know what I mean.’

  Skullop gave a dry cough and relapsed into silence for a while.

  ‘And suddenly there you were, sitting in my punt and telling me how you were on your way to a kingdom full of devils to rescue your sweetheart, just you and your cheese knife. And then, when you’d gone and I’d wept and laughed and racked my brains for long enough, I said to myself: Why don’t I follow that young fool? Why don’t I go to his city full of devils and risk my neck again? If I don’t, my Yelma will never forgive me and I won’t be able to show my face in the place where she is now, when I’m well and truly dead at last.’

  Skullop coughed again.

  ‘That, of course, was precisely what my men wanted me to say. “Hey, men,” I called, “let’s go to that city full of devils and save that crazy Wolperting’s stupid neck.” – “Oh, sure,” they called back, “that’s the best idea you’ve had since you marched us into the Cogitating Quicksand.” – “The next person who brings up that goddamned quicksand business,” I told them, “I’ll ram my punting pole down his throat and bury him head down in the bullrushes!” That silenced them for a while. Then I said, “Yes, you bunch of losers, I’m going to that city full of devils whether or not anyone comes with me. If you want to go on being dead, stay here in your stupid punts on this stinking lake of oil till it turns into coal! Go on dreaming of the old days! Me, I’m off to Hel – I owe it to my Yelma!” And you know what? Except for a small rearguard left behind to look after the punts, they all came along, every last one of them.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the Yeti behind them. ‘We must be as daft as you are!’

  ‘Shall I tell you something else?’ said Skullop. ‘It paid off. We defeated the Copper Killers! We showed those devils a thing or two! What’s more, I saw that Rala of yours. Far too skinny for my taste, but it would have been a real shame if she’d stayed dead. It was a successful campaign.’ Skullop gave a conspiratorial grin. ‘Did you give her the casket?’

  ‘No,’ Rumo muttered.

  Skullop looked puzzled. ‘Why not?’

  ‘It hasn’t come yet.’

  ‘What hasn’t come yet?’

  ‘The right moment.’

  ‘When will that be?’

  ‘Soon,’ said Rumo.

  ‘How soon is soon?’ Skullop insisted.

  ‘Very soon,’ said Rumo. He slowed down and rejoined his friends.

  The prince of peace

  Friftar, seated on Gornab’s throne, was surveying the ruins of the Theatre of Death. Down in the arena his soldiers were busy driving a huge albino rat into a corner with their spears.

  The royal adviser could scarcely believe his luck. At the height of the greatest debacle since the Vrahok Wars, fortune had decided to smile on him.

  That accursed tinpot general? Just a distant memory, a myriad of metal splinters lodged in the stones around him, a coppery sheen on the ruins of the Theatre of Death, a vanished nightmare. The Copper Killers? A harmless war memorial. The rebels? Put to flight.

  And King Gornab had let himself be talked into this Vrahok adventure. No matter how it turned out, Friftar would have plenty of opportunities to foment rebellion among the king’s subjects and turn the situation to his own advantage.

  To think what might have happened! A revolution! Hel in flames! He himself might have been sentenced to death, lynched, executed. As things stood, he was well on the way to becoming the new monarch of Hel.

  What a great and momentous day in the city’s history! The greatest ever, perhaps. The end of the Gornabian dynasty, the beginning of the Friftarian!

  Friftar looked around the theatre. He would have it restored. No, he would have it demolished and rebuilt three times as big. The Friftar Stadium would be a worthy monument to his eternal renown. Lining the arena, the Copper Killers would make splendid statues reminiscent of a bygone age. He could already hear the masses cheering him, Friftar the Forceful, instead of the degenerate Gornab. Yes, that was what he wanted to be called, ‘the Forceful’, for it was vigour and self-discipline, tears and sweat that had brought him to where he was today: on the throne. He would be the first ruler of Hel to be governed by reason, not insanity. A prince of peace, a philosopher king.

  Friftar rose to acknowledge the imaginary plaudits of the masses – and abruptly sat down again.

  Hey, why weren’t his legs obeying him? His thighs felt icy cold, his calves he couldn’t feel at all. No need to panic. The last few hours had been extremely stressful. He needed to rest a while, that was all. But, strangely enough, the chill tide continued to surge up his body. His chest, his arms, his neck, h
is face – all felt as if they were turning to ice. His features became rigid and immobile, his temples were transfixed by a pain like the thrust of a stiletto blade. The clicking inside his head had started again, cold sweat was gathering on his brow. Surely he wasn’t falling seriously ill? Not now, of all times!

  Lord of the Vrahoks

  It took a few days to equip all the Vrahoks. Then they were woken and hypnotised afresh for their long march. The commander-in-chief of the Hellian army wanted to go into battle with every available Vrahok, even the biggest, so he had to take the route via Gornab’s Echo, the most voluminous cave in Netherworld. The huge beasts would have found the other routes to Wolperting impassable or obstructed by insurmountable barriers such as the precipitous cave known as Vrahok’s End.

  Gornab had spent the whole time in his tent, humoured with difficulty by a band of nervous courtiers whenever he wasn’t in a deep sleep induced by the drugs Friftar had given him for the journey.

  When they finally set off, the king plus throne and tent were winched on to the back of the biggest Vrahok and strapped to the platform already anchored there. Gornab’s mood alternated between euphoria and hysterical fear. The effects of the various drugs on his nervous system were such that he sometimes felt like screaming with terror and sometimes shook with violent paroxysms of laughter.

  His view of Netherworld from the Vrahok’s back was genuinely breathtaking, and the creature progressed so calmly and steadily on its twelve colossal legs that the motion was almost imperceptible up there. After a few hours Gornab felt unassailable – more powerful than ever before. He was Lord of the Vrahoks, commander of the most formidable army Hel had ever unleashed. Looking back over his shoulder he could see them all, scores of Vrahoks of every size, docilely plodding along behind him amid the squadrons of fluttering Dogbats on which his soldiers were mounted. So this was what invincibility looked like – far better than the Theatre of Death! Even the stench of the Vrahoks seemed delicious and the alarming noises they made rang in Gornab’s ears like music.