by Walter Moers
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Al said, ‘but our countryside possesses a beauty all its own. It has no need to imitate the scenery up there. It can even surpass it in splendour.’
He wasn’t exaggerating. We traversed an expanse of rock from which projected hundreds of jagged yellow crystals the height of a Lindworm. Partially coated with orange rust, they glowed so brightly in the dark that we could have dispensed with Wami’s and Dancelot’s torches altogether. Luminous stone trees . . . I had never seen anything as impressive in any forest on the surface.
‘They’re just condensed sulphuric gas, that’s all,’ Al explained.
‘Show-off,’ said Wami. ‘No need to act the schoolmaster just because you’ve learnt a few geology books by heart.’
‘You youngsters would do well to take a little more interest in the sciences,’ Al retorted. ‘Genuine creative writing is founded on a wide and varied education. For instance, if you’d memorised the entire works of Ergor Banco, the so-called Doctor Mirabilis, as I have—’
‘No, no!’ Wami and Dancelot cried in horror. ‘Not him again, we beg you!’
Al lapsed into silence and strode on ahead.
‘That’s the trouble with Al’s plays,’ Wami whispered to me. ‘He’s forever dragging in little bits of arcane knowledge. Don’t get him started on Ergor Banco, you’ll never hear the end of it.’
Blossoming on every side were minerals of every shape, colour and size: violet amethyst, pale-pink rose quartz, needle-sharp, milk-white crystals bristling like sea urchins, green bloodstone threaded with red streaks that looked like genuine bloodstains - I, with my modest knowledge of geology, could classify only a few of them.
‘They’re all growing,’ Al said. ‘See the bush that looks like rusty metal? It was only half as big on my last visit.’
Many of the crystals, which really did resemble plants, formed sinuous tendrils, feathery foliage and prickly stalks. They sprouted from fissures in the grey rock like blossoming flowers, luxuriant weeds or wild vegetables. I saw a lump of quartz that could have been mistaken for one of Dancelot’s beloved blue cauliflowers, had it not been ten times the size.
‘Thus, the cauliflower is a flower that has come to grief on its own obesity,’ Dancelot quoted, ‘or, to be more precise, a multiplicity of unsuccessful flowers, a degenerate panicled umbel.’
‘The few buds that have proved durable turn blue and swell up, then flower and produce seeds,’ I chimed in.
‘Honest and true to nature, these gallant little survivors are the saviours of the cauliflower fraternity,’ Dancelot wound up.
We sighed in unison. I was sure my authorial godfather would have been mightily pleased with this subterranean garden.
Wami and Dancelot were truly outstanding flame-throwers. They hurled their torches into the air again and again, and everything the whirling flames carved out of the gloom was breathtaking in its beauty. Flowers of multicoloured glass grew upside down on the roof of the cave, which consisted of transparent crystal, sparkling red manganese oxide or metallically glinting iron pyrites. Long spears of black crystal jutted from the smooth, rounded slabs of milky quartz beneath our feet. It was like walking across the snow-mantled remains of a forest fire.
‘All the minerals in Zamonia have congregated in the Crystal Forest so as to display the full spectrum of their beauty in a single spot,’ said Al. ‘One could almost credit them with artistic aspirations.’
We walked along a narrow passage suffused with a fitful red glow. The air had become so warm, we might have been passing close to a huge furnace. I could hear a sinister bubbling, gurgling sound.
‘We’re now entering the Devil’s Kitchen,’ Al announced. ‘Watch your step. If you trip and fall into that boiling soup, no one can save you.’
Although the Devil’s Kitchen wasn’t an especially large cave, its contents were all the more impressive. The volcanic crater in the centre, which was the size of a village pond, continuously spewed forth red-hot skeins of molten lava that almost hit the roof.
We paused on the lip of this miniature subterranean volcano. Dozens of heavily perspiring Booklings were seated all round the crater, gasping and grunting in the heat as they feasted their eyes on this natural spectacle.
‘Why do they do it?’ I asked in amusement. ‘Why do they sit so close to the lava?’
‘We come here to unwind,’ said Al. ‘The heat relaxes your body and staring at the lava for a while transforms your brain into a porridgy mass - you cease to think of anything at all. We find it helps us to recuperate from our mental exertions.’
‘Not that you need to stare at the lava,’ Wami muttered behind his hand, so quietly that Al couldn’t catch what he said. ‘Your brain has always been a porridgy—’
‘What was that?’ Al demanded.
‘Nothing,’ Wami said quickly.
We left the Devil’s Kitchen by another route, one that took us across a lake of solid amber. Preserved in its depths were thousands of primeval insects, many of them larger than me and so horrific in appearance that even a Spinxxxx would have turned tail at the sight of them. I felt a trifle uneasy for the first time.
‘Yes,’ said Al, ‘this part of the forest is a bit unnerving. A whole river of boiling resin must have flowed through here at one time, probably the result of some volcanic upheaval. Do you see the stone trees over there?’
Beyond the amber lake stood a forest of grey stone tree trunks that seemed to disappear into a black sky. They looked menacing, like stone giants only waiting for a secret word of command to release them from their rigid state.
‘We haven’t set foot in this part of the forest for quite some time,’ Wami said. ‘It isn’t safe. Booklings have entered it and never returned. You can sometimes hear noises coming from it - noises like singing, but not pleasant singing. Huge, hideous, foul-smelling mushrooms with pointed caps grow there. We avoid this place.’
I tiptoed on. I now regarded this subterranean splendour with mixed feelings. Beneath me a host of imprisoned primeval insects, behind me that dark, menacing stone forest . . . For a few blissful minutes I had forgotten that I was still in the perilous catacombs of Bookholm, but now I was uneasy again. Anything down here might conceal some lethal threat. The Booklings had come to terms with this environment because they had no choice, but I would never get used to it. They conducted me along a ravine and into another cave. Wami and Dancelot hurled their torches into the air, enabling me to see that it was grey, high and not particularly large.
‘This is the part of the forest we wanted to show you,’ Al said.
‘I don’t see anything special about it,’ I replied.
‘Just be quiet!’ Wami said softly.
‘Be quiet and wait!’ whispered Dancelot.
‘Ssh!’ Al hissed.
So I waited in silence. Nothing happened for a long time, we simply stood there in the fitful torchlight. I had just begun to suspect I’d once more fallen prey to the Booklings’ peculiar sense of humour when I heard a voice.
‘Hello!’ someone called.
I reacted instinctively. ‘Hello!’ I called back. It was only then that I wondered who had spoken.
‘No one,’ whispered Wami, who seemed to read my thoughts like an open book. ‘This is the Chamber of Captive Echoes.’
‘Hello!’ someone called again, and a steadily fading echo replied: ‘Hello. . . hello . . . hello. . . !’
‘Ah!’ sighed a new voice. ‘Ah . . . Ah . . . Ah . . . !’
‘Help!’ shouted someone, so loudly that I gave a jump. ‘Help . . . Help . . . Help . . . !’
‘We can’t explain it exactly,’ Al said in a subued voice, ‘but the echoes found their way into this cave by some means and now they can’t get out.’
‘They’re trapped,’ said Wami.
‘For ever and a day,’ Dancelot put in. ‘Sad, isn’t it?’
‘It’s been like this ever since we discovered the place,’ said Al. ‘Always the same voices, the same
words and sighs, though from time to time they’re joined by new ones. We think they’ve all been uttered by people who have got lost in the catacombs. They find their way in through fissures in the rock, never to escape.’
‘Is anyone there?’ called another voice. ‘Is anyone there . . . ? Is anyone there . . . ? Is anyone there . . . ?’
‘Where am I? Where am I . . . ? Where am I . . . ?’
‘I don’t want to die! I don’t want to die . . . ! I don’t want to die . . . !’
‘Why doesn’t someone help me? Why doesn’t someone help me . . . ? Why doesn’t someone help me . . . ?’
‘I’m dying! I’m dying . . . ! I’m dying . . . !’
I was growing more and more uneasy. The despair in those voices was too intense, too reminiscent of my own despair as I roamed the catacombs in search of a way out. They were the voices of the lost and dying, of people who might long be dead.
‘Is anyone there? Is anyone there . . . ? Is anyone there . . . ?’
‘Where am I? Where am I . . . ? Where am I . . . ?’
‘I don’t want to die! I don’t want to die . . . ! I don’t want to die . . . !’
More and more voices joined in, their cries of lamentation becoming ever more insistent. The echoes intermingled. They rose to a shout and faded to a whisper - to the whispers uttered by invisible ghosts that circled me, forcing their way through my auditory canals and into my brain.
‘Why won’t somebody help me? Why won’t somebody help me . . . ?’ ‘Where am I? Where am I . . . ?’ ‘I don’t want to die! I don’t want to die . . . !’ ‘Ah! Ah . . . ! Ah . . . ! Ah . . . !’ ‘Why won’t somebody help me?’ ‘Help! Help . . . ! Help . . . !’ ‘Where am I? Where am I . . . ? Where am I. . . ? Where am I . . . ?’ ‘Why won’t somebody help me? Why won’t somebody help me . . . ?’ ‘Ah! Ah . . . ! Ah . . . !’
And suddenly a new voice joined in the chorus of echoes. It uttered a scream, a cry of horror more desperate than all the rest and consisting of only three words:
‘The Shadow King! The Shadow King. . . ! The Shadow King. . . ! The Shadow King. . . !’
There was such a note of fear in the voice that I almost cried out myself. It went echoing through the cave again and again, to mingle at last with the others and take its place in the grisly vocal corps de ballet whirling around me.
‘The Shadow King! The Shadow King . . . ! The Shadow King . . . ! The Shadow King . . . !’ ‘Why won’t somebody help me? Why won’t somebody help me?’ Where am I? Where am I?’ ‘The Shadow King!’ ‘Ah!’ ‘I don’t want to die! I don’t want to die. . . !’ ‘Why won’t somebody help me? Why won’t somebody help me . . . help me . . . help me . . . ?’ ‘The Shadow King!’ ‘Where am I? Where am I . . . ? Where am I . . . ? Where am I . . . ?’ ‘Is anyone there? Is anyone there?’ ‘The Shadow King!’
The echoes pierced my brain like ice-cold needles, ever deeper, ever more painfully, until I shielded my head with my arms and fled from the cave in panic. Al, Wami and Dancelot hurried after me.
Although the voices ceased as soon as I’d made my exit from the cave, I ran on, lashing out with my arms like someone fending off an invisible swarm of bees. The three Booklings caught up with me, held me tight and did their best to calm me down.
‘Those echoes don’t belong in our world, they just became trapped here,’ Al said apologetically. ‘We listen to them from time to time, but only to reassure ourselves of how well off we are.’
‘We only wanted to make it clear to you, yet again, what awaits you outside our territory,’ said Wami.
‘Sooner or later,’ Dancelot said softly, ‘you’ll be overcome by an urge to leave us. When that happens you may remember the despairing voices in the Chamber of Captive Echoes.’
‘Many thanks,’ I said, still breathing heavily. ‘I certainly won’t forget them in a hurry.’
‘You can take it easy now,’ said Al. ‘Next comes a pleasant part of our tour.’
‘Would you like to see a treasure?’ Wami asked. ‘The greatest treasure in the catacombs?’
The Star of the Catacombs
What had begun like an excursion to the world above seemed now to be taking us into ever deeper, ever gloomier subterranean regions. We had descended into a part of the forest where there were very few beautiful crystals, just walls of black, coal-bearing rock. Every bend revealed yet another low gallery lit by chandeliers suspended from the roof. We passed a number of Booklings so caked with grime that one could hardly tell the colour of their skin. They were carrying pickaxes and other miners’ implements or pushing wheelbarrows filled with lumps of coal. A coal mine? The Booklings were naturally bound to regard coal, their source of warmth and light, as a substance of inestimable value. Then a Bookling came towards us with a wheelbarrow that contained, in addition to some coal, an uncut diamond the size of a pumpkin.
Al, Wami and Dancelot took no notice of this apparition. I alone stared at the Bookling and his priceless cargo until they disappeared round the next bend.
I might have been mistaken, of course. Perhaps it hadn’t been a diamond at all, just a piece of worthless crystal, a lump of quartz - I wasn’t too well up on mineralogy. But then another Bookling came towards us, and his wheelbarrow really did contain a diamond. This one was perfectly cut, and I could certainly tell a cut diamond from a lump of rock crystal. It was quite as big as the previous one, if not bigger.
‘Did you see that?’ I asked. ‘That diamond, I mean?’
‘Hm,’ said Wami. ‘Of course.’
‘But . . . it was the size of a pumpkin.’
‘Yes,’ said Al, ‘a pretty measly specimen.’
I was too disconcerted to pursue the matter. More Booklings came towards us carrying baskets filled to the brim with diamonds as big as my fist, but Al, Wami and Dancelot ignored them too.
It became lighter as we neared the next bend, presumably because of the candles burning beyond it. I could hear a host of people humming and murmuring, wielding hammers and operating grindstones. When we rounded the bend the sight that met our eyes took my breath away. Hewn out of the coal-bearing rock, it was a long, fairly low gallery in which thousands or even millions of diamonds were sparkling. A hundred or more Booklings were bustling around, engaged in a wide variety of activities, and all were humming a lively tune.
‘This is our diamond garden,’ Al said. ‘It isn’t as varied as the Crystal Forest, but the vegetation we harvest here is considerably more valuable.’
I was at a loss for words. I had always considered myself relatively indifferent to earthly riches, but the sight of the Booklings’ treasure chamber left me speechless.
‘We discovered this cave a long time ago,’ Al went on. ‘It was much smaller in those days. The Rusty Gnomes must have started it. We’ve been enlarging it continuously ever since, and we keep on finding larger and larger diamond deposits. Let’s take a look.’
We made our way down into the cave by a flight of steps hewn out of coal. Still speechless, I surveyed the scene with marvelling eyes. There were diamonds of every size and state: rough stones, stones only half or completely cut, stones the size of peas, apples or pumpkins - the ones Wami had dismissed as ‘measly’. Then there were the really large ones. Hundreds of these lay around like boulders, as tall as me and as big round the middle as wine casks. The ones that had already been cut and polished flashed and sparkled in the flickering light of countless candles, their facets dappling the walls of the cave with all the reflected colours of the rainbow. Glittering right at the back was one specimen easily the size of a house.
The Booklings were hard at work among these precious stones. They hacked away with their pickaxes, dug out diamonds or bore them off by the basketful. Some were seated at workbenches, splitting the stones with tiny hammers or cutting them with the aid of grindstones, others checked their purity with large magnifying glasses. Still others were unloading rough diamonds into heaps or trundling them around in wheelbarrows.
‘Actuall
y,’ said Wami, as we strolled through this hive of activity, ‘coal is worth considerably more to us than diamonds - at least we can burn the stuff. These rocks are merely hard work.’
‘All we can do is hoard them,’ said Dancelot, who had picked up a cut stone the size of a grapefruit and was holding it up to the light. ‘However, we’ve fallen in love with diamonds. There something so . . . so irresistible about them. Processing them is fun. They bring light into our dark world. It’s a cold, useless light, and candles are needed to extract it from them, but it’s beautiful for all that.’ He slowly rotated the stone in front of a candle and was instantly deluged with tiny, multicoloured specks of light.
‘We cut and polish them to perfection, then hide them in the catacombs,’ said Wami, happily plunging his fingers into a basket filled with tiny diamond slivers. ‘We’ve installed hundreds of secret treasure chambers. Each of them would be the envy of the most powerful king on earth.’
‘We’re like hens trying to hatch stones,’ Al said with a laugh. ‘The diamonds are of no practical use to us. We’re the wealthiest creatures in the catacombs, but we don’t get anything out of it.’
Although I had regained my composure and power of speech by now, I couldn’t think of any questions to ask. I only just resisted an impulse to fall on the mounds of diamonds and wallow in them like a pig in mud.
‘We’re rather extravagant with our diamonds, I must admit,’ said Wami. ‘We can afford to be, we’ve got so many. We cut them into shapes of all kinds.’
The Booklings seemed to engage in diamond mining without any commercial ambitions. They regarded it more as a game. Many of the huge precious stones were only half exposed and cut, others had been completely unearthed and split in two or reduced to little splinters. Heaps of fine diamond dust lay all over the place. It was less a diamond mine than a sculptor’s studio.
