Rumo: And His Miraculous Adventures

by Walter Moers

  The column soon reached Gornab’s Echo. The subterranean chambers down here were so gigantic that even the Vrahoks resembled insects crawling across the floor of a cave. Each carried between ten and a hundred soldiers, depending on its size, and the beasts themselves provided most of the light because their blue intestines glowed more brightly the darker it became. For additional illumination, torches and fires in iron tubs had been lit on the backs of the largest specimens.

  Our pride and joy

  The Vrahoks were covering vast distances at every step. Gornab feasted his eyes on the morbid beauty of his sinister kingdom. Wonderful, the way those primeval beasts’ fearsome shadows flitted across the cavern walls, disturbing flocks of clamorous Kackerbats and driving them into the darkness. Gornab had never dreamt that the kingdom he ruled was so vast. Great indeed were the Gornabs! He could hear their voices in his head, spurring him on:

  ‘Onward!’

  ‘Onward!’

  ‘Lord of the Vrahoks!’

  ‘Fulfiller of the Red Prophecy!’

  ‘King of Hel!’

  ‘Blood of our blood!’

  ‘Brain of our brain!’

  ‘Our beloved son!’

  ‘Our pride and joy!’

  The torchlight carved miraculous spectacles out of the gloom. Stalagmites bigger than the biggest Vrahok loomed up in the darkness like giants asleep on their feet. Moths with huge, metallically gleaming wings circled Gornab’s throne with a sound like thunder sheets in action. Cascades of sparkling, multicoloured rock seemed to plunge down the sides of the cavern like enormous waterfalls – a breathtaking sight. All Netherworld was putting on a show in its ruler’s honour!

  Gornab laughed and shouted and fidgeted around on his throne. The Red Prophecy was coming true! This was a triumphal progress and it wouldn’t be his last. Below was above, right was left, war was good, peace was bad. Gornab had never felt so omnipotent.

  Skullop leads the way

  Yukobak and Ribble had warned the Wolpertings that the Hellings would probably mobilise the Vrahoks and pursue them. Skullop, who knew the routes through Netherworld best, had been tacitly elected to lead the party.

  To prevent the Vrahoks from following them he led the Wolpertings along narrow ravines, winding passages and tunnels with little headroom. They traversed a world ruled by deaf, sightless creatures, insects that found their way around with their antennae. The fact that noises didn’t startle them led to some unexpected encounters in the darkness. The caves were damp, the rocks jagged and slippery, and the marchers had to be careful to avoid the deep fissures that often yawned in their path. Many stretches had to be covered in total darkness because no phosphorescent algae grew there and a strong smell of oil precluded the use of torches. It was bitterly cold most of the time, and the frozen moisture made every step hazardous.

  As if eager to make up for the time she had lost inside the Metal Maiden, Rala had grown steadily wilder and more restless since returning from the realm of death. She was constantly on the move, sometimes up front with the Yetis, sometimes bringing up the rear with the Wolpertings, but always on the spot with her bow whenever danger threatened in the shape of some huge insect or other subterranean creature. One could literally see the life flooding back into her. Her movements were becoming more lithe, her footsteps swifter, her limbs stronger.

  Together with Urs, Rolv, Vasko and Balla, Rumo formed the rearguard whose job it was to defend the party against attacks from behind. Yukobak and Ribble had joined them, whereas Smyke and Kolibri travelled with the older Wolpertings.

  But all who took part in this march from one pool of darkness to the next were dependent on themselves. Having formerly been captives in the evil heart of Netherworld, they were now crawling through its entrails, and none of them could have said which was worse.

  They did not call a halt for three days. The Yetis needed no rest or sleep, but the Wolpertings, especially the older ones among them, were beginning to flag despite their natural stamina and resilience.

  A fire was lit in one of the smaller, more easily defended caves. Most members of the party went to sleep right away, but some of them including Rumo, Urs, Rolv, Rala, Yukobak, Ribble, Mayor Jowly, Skullop, Smyke and Professor Kolibri gathered round the blaze to swap accounts of their recent experiences.

  Swapping stories

  Many tales were told during this interlude, and it is highly improbable that any stories ever recounted around a campfire could have been more extraordinary.

  Rala told of being imprisoned inside her own body, of Tallon the Bear God and the hideous face of fear, of her flight through her own bloodstream and the terrible soldiers of death she had encountered there.

  Ribble described the Yetis’ heroic battle with the Copper Killers. He told of headless warriors fighting on by the light of incandescent splinters of iron, of Skullop the Scyther’s titanic fury and the destructive power of his mighty weapon. And he described the origins of the Homunculi and their wretched way of life.

  Yukobak confessed to what he’d done in the cellars of the Theatre of Death – his release of the red spider, the Crystalloscorpion and the albino rat – and described the Wolpertings’ fight with General Ticktock. He also gave a short history of Hel that included the building of the Urban Flytraps and the training of the Vrahoks. It was only now that most of the Wolpertings learnt the truth about Gornab, Friftar and the Theatre of Death.

  Professor Ostafan Kolibri, who contributed a scientifically accurate description of Murkholm and the Jellyfog that prevailed there, described what it felt like to go temporarily mad in four brains at once.

  Smyke, needless to say, spoke longer and better than anyone else. He presented a verbose and detailed account of his voyage through Rala’s coagulating blood, his encounter with the Non-Existent Teenies (at this, Kolibri’s eyes glowed brighter than anyone else’s) and his duel with the soldier of death, whose spine he had snapped. His one minor omission related to certain events that had occurred at Lindworm Castle.

  Skullop the Scyther told the story of the Dead Yetis and described his first meeting with Rumo – how the latter had almost brought down half Netherworld by shouting and what a fool he’d been to go to Hel armed with a cheese knife.

  Last of all, Urs rose and described how Ushan DeLucca had met his end while defying General Ticktock unarmed. Ticktock was already holding Ushan’s heart in his hand by the time Urs grasped that the fencing master’s sole motive had been to save his life. Consequently, he felt it his duty to continue Ushan’s life work and devote himself to the art of swordsmanship from now on. Many had tears in their eyes when Urs resumed his seat.

  Only Rumo said nothing. He meant to speak more than once, but before he could collect his thoughts and open his mouth someone else got in first. He didn’t regret this because he knew that, as usual, he would have got everything back to front.

  Finally, when exhaustion had reduced them all to silence and they were trying to grab a little restorative sleep for the march to come, Krindle and Dandelion made their presence felt.

  ‘Why didn’t you say anything?’ Dandelion demanded. ‘Our own experiences would surely have made the best story of all. The fight in Nurn Forest! Yggdra Syl! The casket! The Icemagogs! The Vrahoks! General Ticktock’s innards! Ideal subjects for inclusion in lessons on the heroic sagas!’

  ‘I’m no good at telling stories,’ Rumo protested.

  ‘Instead of that, you let Skullop the Scyther make fun of you,’ said Dandelion. ‘Great! If that’s your way of looking good in front of Rala, I give up!’

  ‘You should have killed Skullop when you still had the chance,’ said Krindle.

  ‘Does that mean you’ve lost your desire to kill Skullop?’ Dandelion asked him. ‘Why the change of heart, you merciless Demonic Warrior?’

  ‘We still need him,’ Krindle growled. ‘First he must guide us through Netherworld. Then we’ll kill him.’

  Vrahok’s Repose

  Gornab had retired to h
is tent and was trying to get some sleep, but it was strange: the more wine and sleeping draughts he poured down his throat, the wider awake he felt.

  ‘I’m adraif,’ he whispered to himself under the bedclothes. ‘Why shloud I be adraif?’

  He dashed out of the tent into the torchlight and over to the rail enclosing his platform on the Vrahok’s back. His dark kingdom stretched away far below, the blue stalagmites protruding from oily water. Why did he suddenly find this view of the depths so alarming? He went to the rear of the platform. There they were, his Vrahoks, his soldiers, his army. Scores of the gigantic beasts were plodding through the gloom of Vrahok’s Repose, yet another cavern on the route to Overworld. Dogbats were howling and lashing the air with their leathery wings. Why did he now find this view so ominous? Why was he feeling like a fugitive bereft of protection? The vast cavern seemed to sway in the fitful blue glow shed by the Vrahoks and each of the countless stalagmites jutting from its floor resembled a finger raised in warning. Did those pursuing, long-legged shadows belong to the Vrahoks, or to subterranean demons? Ice-cold drops of water spattered Gornab’s head.

  Why wasn’t Friftar there to reassure him? Why was he so alone? The king of Netherworld leant over the rail and vented his fear on the darkness.

  ‘Tarfrift!’ he shouted. ‘Tarfrift! Why do I leef so adraif?’

  The membrane

  For the first time, this trek through the bowels of the earth made it clear to the Wolpertings what a merciless world they had blithely lived above until now, how thin was the crust that separated them from it, and how great the danger that its savage, evil inhabitants might one day burst forth to wreak death and destruction in Overworld.

  They saw yards-long worms armed with pincers, plate-sized phosphorescent ants of every hue, peat-dwelling spiders whose groans would have melted the hardest heart. The layer separating Overworld from Netherworld seemed no more than a membrane penetrable by any creature evil enough to pierce it. This was a world where dead things came to life again, where corpses turned into maggots and other vermin, where decaying matter produced new growth and dangerous Nurns were born of buried blood. It was a cruel, implacable world full of greedy predators. The higher they climbed the looser the soil and the more crackling, burrowing, lip-smacking sounds they heard on every side. The Wolpertings’ journey through Netherworld welded them together more closely than all their previous experiences. Each was responsible for his neighbour and every step could prove disastrous or fatal for all. Danger lurked everywhere. Never had they taken greater care of each other.

  Having completed the strenuous ascent from Hel by way of Stonewater Grotto and a maze of tunnels and small caves, they reached Deadwood, with its huge, treelike stalagmites and eternal pall of mist. Its apelike denizens kept out of sight, possibly for fear of attacking such a large party. Their unnerving screams were all that could be heard and big stones occasionally fell from the mist overhead.

  Although Rumo warned his companions not to eat the black mushrooms, the Yetis brushed his advice aside and tucked into them. They were in an exuberant mood for hours afterwards, dancing around among the stone trees, hurling stones at the invisible apes and giggling foolishly to themselves. At some stage the first Kronks appeared – the furry little hook-beaked creatures that were Netherworld’s original inhabitants – and Rumo knew Nurn Forest could not be far off. He joined Skullop the Scyther at the head of the column.

  ‘We’ll soon have to go through the Nurn Forest Labyrinth,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s the way I came.’

  Skullop focused his empty eye sockets on Rumo. ‘You went right through Nurn Forest?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rumo, ‘didn’t you?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Skullop laughed. ‘We’ve got more sense.’

  ‘But the only route from the Fridgicaves to Hel goes that way.’

  ‘What gives you that idea? Hey, just a minute – you mean to say you went by way of the Fridgicaves? They’re swarming with Icemagogs!’

  ‘I know,’ said Rumo.

  Skullop chuckled drily. ‘Then you picked the most dangerous route through Netherworld, my boy – congratulations! Hey, you lot,’ he called to the other Yetis, ‘this youngster here went breezing through the Fridgicaves – and through the Nurn Forest Labyrinth.’

  ‘So why is he still in the land of the living?’ one of them called back.

  Skullop grinned. ‘Every time you open your mouth, my friend, I doubt your sanity a little bit more. Why didn’t you go via the Vrahok Caves while you were at it?’

  Rumo made no comment.

  ‘There’s a dead straight route that avoids the Fridgicaves and Nurn Forest. That’s the one we took.’

  ‘So why didn’t you tell me when I asked you?’ said Rumo. ‘You told me there were various routes through Netherworld, that’s all.’

  ‘Which wasn’t a lie,’ Skullop retorted.

  Friftar in extremis

  No one, whether soldier, physician or alchemist, had dared to approach Friftar. What was happening to the royal adviser seated on the throne of Gornab the Ninety-Ninth was indescribable, unspeakable and – without doubt – highly infectious. They all felt threatened by the mere sight of him, even at a respectful distance, and hurriedly took to their heels. This was why Friftar soon found himself alone in the Theatre of Death, the sole performer in a final production staged before an audience of the dead.

  But what was happening to the exterior of his body was only a pale reflection of what was going on inside him. The Subcutaneous Suicide Squad’s activities in Friftar’s bloodstream surpassed anything that had ever taken place in the arena, and no impresario, not even Friftar himself, could have devised scenes of such ingenious cruelty. It was only now that the Subcutaneous Suicide Squad’s capacity for mutation attained its true objective, which was to inflict as many different forms of pain as possible. Needles and pincers, poisons and acids were brought into play. The agonies Friftar had to endure were worse than the sum of all the pain that had ever been inflicted in the Theatre of Death. And they took their time, for it was only in Friftar’s body that Tykhon Zyphos’s disease disclosed the full extent of its horror.

  No dream

  Gornab awoke from a restless sleep with his ears ringing. What an awful nightmare! He’d been riding a Vrahok pursued by gigantic demons who bombarded him with pointed stalactites, somewhere a long way from Hel. His ancestors had cavorted around and jeered at him for being a coward. It was frightful!

  Where was Friftar with his breakfast?

  The king got out of bed, tottered over to the curtain stark naked and drew it aside. He jumped back with a smothered cry of terror. Stretching away in front of him was a vast cavern, and fluttering through the air above were squadrons of Dogbats ridden by soldiers holding torches. The torchlight illuminated the back of the Vrahok beneath him, which was wheezing heavily. The air reeked of oil and sea water, and huge, menacing stalactites hung from the roof of the cavern.

  Gornab tottered back inside, drew the curtain and recovered his wits at last. With a shudder, he realised that it hadn’t been a dream after all. He was Lord of the Vrahoks, and Friftar and Hel were far, far away. It was all he could do not to drink a pint of sleeping draught and crawl back under the bedclothes.

  ‘Your Majesty?’ said a voice from outside. ‘Are you awake?’

  ‘Yes,’ Gornab replied peevishly, ‘I am.’

  ‘You’ll be pleased to hear that the bulk of our journey is now behind us,’ said the voice, which belonged to one of his generals. ‘According to our calculations it’s not beyond the bounds of possibility that our decisive encounter with the Wolpertings will occur before the day is out.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Gornab said impatiently. ‘Wath of it?’

  ‘I mention it only because we shall require your final orders by then at the latest.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Gornab. ‘You’ll teg them in doog mite.’

  Orders? he thought. No problem the
re. He need only decree that the Vrahoks devour those stupid Wolpertings. What was so difficult about that?

  He took a swig of some fortifying potion and donned his royal robe. Then he waddled out of the tent.

  Oil Lake once more

  The route Skullop was taking them led through small caves and low tunnels that harboured no creatures of the wild or other unpleasantnesses apart from Kronks and Kackerbats. Rumo silently cursed Skullop for omitting to tell him about this short cut. On the other hand he wouldn’t have bumped into Yukobak and Ribble, and who knew how his venture would have turned out then? Fate followed a route of its own and it wasn’t always the shortest.

  The Wolpertings could scent Oil Lake hours before they reached it, and Rumo was surprised that a smell which had caused him such uneasiness the first time should now seem almost reassuring. This was the last leg of the journey they would have to cover with outside help. They were almost home.

  A small rearguard of Yetis was waiting for their companions on the shores of Oil Lake. Little was said. Skullop growled a few brief orders and his men proceeded to load their punts with passengers. At another word of command from Skullop the fleet pushed off and disappeared into the luminous mist.

  For the first time the fugitives seemed to lose a little of the uneasiness that had spurred them on throughout their journey. The Yetis proudly told the rearguard about their defeat of the Copper Killers and many of the Wolpertings took advantage of the crossing to get some sleep. Rala sat silent in the bow of the punt in which Rumo was travelling. Whatever the reason – her reassuring presence, or the gentle, gliding motion of the punt, or the rhythmical gurgle of the oil, or, more probably, sheer exhaustion – Rumo fell asleep sitting up.