by Walter Moers
Standing everywhere were sculptures the Booklings had fashioned out of diamonds. Many had been cut from one big stone, others were composed of numerous small ones. Some were representations of underworld fauna and flora - an impressively lifelike Crystalloscorpion, for instance, or plants such as I had earlier seen in the Crystal Forest. Other sculptures were more abstract and strictly geometrical. The Booklings had clearly developed a certain amount of skill as diamond cutters. I couldn’t help laughing when I sighted a lifesize portrayal of one of their number.
‘That’s the so-called Diamond Bookling,’ said Wami. ‘As a rule we fight shy of self-portraiture except for purposes of deterrence, but in this case we simply couldn’t resist. Come on, we’ll show you our pièce de résistance.’
We now went over to the mammoth diamond I had already spotted from the other end of the cave. The closer we got to it, the more fantastic and unreal it looked. A Bookling stationed behind the colossal gem was whirling a torch in a circle - I could see him and the rotating flames reflected a hundredfold in all its polished facets. The precious stone radiated an incredible spectrum of colours and sprinkled its surroundings with variegated pools of light. Dazzled by the diamond’s scintillations, I eventually had to shut my eyes.
‘That’s the biggest one of all,’ said Al, ‘the Star of the Catacombs.’
I had grown up with the legend of the Lindworm Castle Diamond, which was said to lie hidden in the heart of the fortress. Reputedly the size of a house, this ill-famed and mythical gem was responsible for the sieges Lindworm Castle had undergone at regular intervals because sundry brain-dead barbarians clung stubbornly to the belief that such a huge diamond existed. Although no Lindworm believed in its existence, I had been obsessed as a youngster with visions of the Lindworm Castle Diamond slumbering away inside the castle rock - and in my childish imagination it had looked just like this Star of the Catacombs. I felt I was revisiting a scene from my childhood.
‘Well,’ said Al, ‘now you’ve seen everything: the Crystal Forest, the Devil’s Kitchen, the Chamber of Captive Echoes, the Diamond Garden and the Star of the Catacombs. It’s time to get back to the Leather Grotto.’
I rubbed my eyes like someone awaking from a dream.
‘More teleportation?’ I asked.
‘We must insist, I’m afraid,’ said Al. ‘No one who isn’t a Bookling can be allowed to know how to get here, and in your case it’s doubly important. You’re an author. Some day you’ll write about the Crystal Forest and the Diamond Garden. That’s perfectly all right, it’s your duty to do so, in fact we’d be pleased if our scenic beauties were at last accorded their rightful place in Zamonian literature - as long as you don’t include a description of the route.’
‘I’d never do that.’
‘Of course you wouldn’t,’ Al said with a smile, ‘but it’s better to be safe than sorry.’
He, Wami and Dancelot gathered round me and started to hum.
One Breakfast and Two Confessions
Once I had regained consciousness after being teleported back to the Leather Grotto we spent the rest of the day Orming. I guessed the identity of, among others, Honj Steak (‘A thing of beauty is a joy for ever’), Auselm T. Edgecroil (‘Water, water everywhere, nor any drop to drink’), Samoth Yarg (‘The curfew tolls the knell of parting day’) and Selwi Rollcar9 (‘’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe’).
The next morning I was brought my breakfast (toasted bookworms and root tea) by Al, Wami and Dancelot. They watched me intently, almost furtively, while I was consuming it. This prompted a question on my part.
‘Tell me something: when do you eat? I haven’t seen a single Bookling take any nourishment since I’ve been here.’
All three cleared their throats in a sheepish manner.
‘What’s the matter, my friends?’ I demanded. ‘Why always so secretive?
What’s the meaning of all this giggling and throat-clearing? You’re concealing something from me! Is there something in those stories after all? Are you only fattening me up with a view to eating me?’
I had asked the last question half jokingly, but once uttered it hung in the air like a Damoclean sword.
Al, Wami and Dancelot stared hard in three different directions.
‘Come on, what do you feed on?’
‘Feed, read, feed, read, what’s the difference?’ Al replied cryptically. ‘They sound almost the same.’
‘Meaning what?’
Dancelot nudged Al. ‘Go on, tell him.’
Al lowered his single eye and looked embarrassed. ‘This is a bit awkward,’ he said in a low voice, ‘but there really is some truth in the Bookhunters’ stories about our eating habits.’
‘You mean you devour anything that comes your way?’ I put down my bowl of bookworms.
‘No,’ said Al. ‘The other rumour.’
I thought for a moment. ‘You eat books?’
‘Exactly.’
‘You actually eat them?’
‘No. Yes. In a way. Not really, though. How can I put it?’ Al struggled for words.
‘We don’t really eat them,’ said Wami, coming to his rescue. ‘Not in the sense of gobbling paper like a bookworm. It’s just that reading assuages our hunger.’
‘Come again?’
‘We find it rather embarrassing’, said Al, ‘that an activity as sublimely intellectual as reading should be associated in our case with a process as vulgar as digestion, but that’s how it is. We feed on reading.’
‘I don’t believe it,’ I said, laughing. ‘This is another of your jokes, isn’t it?’
‘We never make jokes about reading,’ Al said gravely.
‘This is the craziest thing I’ve ever heard, and I’ve heard plenty of crazy stories in the last few days. How does it work?’
‘We can’t tell you that ourselves,’ said Al. ‘We’re Booklings, not scientists, but it does work, I can assure you. In my own case, rather too well.’ He kneaded his rolls of fat with a worried air.
‘I can read anything I like,’ said Dancelot. ‘I simply never put on weight.’
Al glared at him. ‘How I detest these leptosomatic types who can stuff themselves to their heart’s content without gaining a single ounce! Yesterday he read three Baroque blockbuters on the trot - three of them! - and look at him! Thin as a beanpole! If I did that I’d have to go on a reading diet for weeks.’
‘So books differ in nutritional value?’ I asked.
‘Of course. You have to be very careful what you eat. Novels are substantial fare - you have to watch yourself. At present I’m on a strict poetry diet. Three poems a day, no more.’ Al sighed.
‘A strict poetry diet?’ scoffed Wami. ‘You only started it today.’
‘All we need is water and stale air,’ Dancelot put in. ‘Apart from that, reading is sufficient to sustain us. We’re always trying to discover which books contain the most nourishment.’
‘The classics, of course!’ Al said sternly.
‘That remains to be proved!’ Wami objected. ‘I spent years feeding exclusively on avant-garde verse from the Impic Alps and I was in first-class shape.’
‘It’s almost too good to be true,’ said Dancelot. ‘We’re the only creatures in the catacombs exempt from the merciless cycle of eat and be eaten, hunt and be hunted. There’s always plenty to read.’
‘Too much, if anything,’ sighed Al. ‘Far too much!’
‘I sometimes think we’re the only people who really get something out of literature,’ Wami said with a grin. ‘Books mean nothing but hard work to everyone else. They have to write them, edit them, print them, publish them, sell them, remainder them, study them, review them. Work, work, work, whereas we only have to read, browse and enjoy. We really can devour books and we never grow tired of it. I wouldn’t swap places with an author.’
Al’s eye glowed. ‘You start your meal with a few light aphorisms, perhaps by Rasco Elwid, and move on to a sonnet - one of Wimpe
rsleake’s, let’s say, they’re all equally tasty. Next, a fat-free novella or a few short stories. Finally, the main course: a novel by . . . well, Hornac de Bloaze, for instance - you know, a really fat India-paper edition of three thousand pages, complete with some delicious footnotes! Last of all, for pudding—’
‘Get a grip on yourself!’ Dancelot broke in. ‘You only started dieting this morning and you’re cracking up already.’
Al fell silent. A thread of saliva was trickling from the corner of his mouth.
All kinds of questions occurred to me. ‘Can you reread a book?’
‘Yes, if you digested it thoroughly the first time. You can devour the same book again and again.’
‘Which tastes better, poetry or prose?’
‘That’s a matter of opinion.’
‘Are some books indigestible?’
‘Horror stories give you nightmares. Light reading doesn’t provide any long-term sustenance. Thrillers are supposed to be bad for the nerves.’
‘Are authors with big vocabularies more satisfying than others?’
‘Definitely.’
‘What about non-fiction?’
‘It makes a change occasionally.’
‘And cookbooks?’
‘Now you’re pulling our leg!’
‘How about reviews?’
‘They leave a nasty aftertaste.’
I could have gone on questioning the Booklings for hours, but they were eager to get going. Another Orming session had been scheduled for this morning. That was fine with me because I was already growing bored with the business and wanted to get it over as soon as possible.
On the way to the Leather Grotto I remembered something that had occurred to me just before I went to sleep. I hesitated for a moment before broaching the subject to Al, then plucked up courage.
‘I say, Al, I’ve been wondering . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s about your talent for teleportation. Would it be possible for you to teleport me back to the surface of Bookholm?’
‘Er, no,’ Al replied. ‘Impossible, I’m afraid.’
‘But why? Is it because you couldn’t breathe up there?’
‘Yes,’ Al said rather uncertainly. ‘Among other things.’
‘What if you deposited me a little way below the surface? Somewhere you could still breathe?
‘Er . . .’ Al said helplessly.
‘We ought to tell him,’ Dancelot chimed in. ‘We may as well, while we’re on the subject.’
‘Yes,’ Wami said, ‘why not? Go on, tell him.’
‘All right,’ said Al. ‘The thing is, we played a little trick on you. We can’t teleport at all.’
‘You can’t?’
‘Afraid not.’
‘So how did I get to the Leather Grotto? How did I get to the Crystal Forest and back?’
‘Like the rest of us: on foot.’
That would at least account for my muscular fatigue. Each bout of teleportation had made my legs ache as if I’d walked for miles.
‘Why can’t I remember anything?’
‘Because we hypnotised you. That’s all we can do, but we’re really good at it.’
‘The best,’ said Dancelot.
Wami fixed me with a piercing cyclopean gaze. ‘Look into my eye . . . look into my eye . . . !’ he whispered.
Al elbowed him aside. ‘Stop that nonsense!’ he said, and to me: ‘Yes, we’re genuine experts at mental manipulation. That’s the real reason why Bookhunters never dare to come here.’
‘I don’t see the connection.’
‘We lure one of them into the catacombs from time to time,’ Wami said with a grin, ‘and then we hypnotise him good and proper. Believe me, he wakes up believing that he’s just managed to escape from some Booklings ten feet tall and equipped with razor-sharp fangs. Then he passes the story on to his colleagues - very plausibly, too. That’s how most of the myths about us got started: we invented them ourselves.’
‘And each of you can do it?’
‘Hypnotise people? No, not individually,’ said Dancelot. ‘It’s a collective accomplishment. There must be at least three of us and the more we are the better. The entire Bookling community could hypnotise a whole army.’
‘And you can do it to anyone?’
‘Anything or anyone capable of dreaming,’ said Al. ‘We once hypnotised a Lavaworm. No idea what Lavaworms dream about, but that proves they do.’
‘We aren’t talking about a cheap fairground trick,’ Wami put in. ‘Our hypnosis is mental manipulation of the highest order. We could transform you into any living creature we liked - or at least, you’d think you were that creature. The same goes for plants. Or crystals. If we chose to, we could transform you into the Star of the Catacombs.’
‘Really and truly?’
‘Like to try it?’ Al asked with a smile. ‘Eh?’
Murch and Maggot
We were back in the Leather Grotto soon afterwards. Al had assembled all the Booklings and informed them that Orming was to be postponed in favour of a demonstration of collective hypnosis.
I couldn’t help feeling a little uneasy when I saw the expectant Booklings gather round, but it was too late to back out now. The announcement had bred a mood of excitement and eager anticipation, and they were all jabbering away at once. It seemed that they were trying to decide what creature to transform me into, because the air was thick with the names of animals.
‘What will I imagine I am?’ I asked Al nervously.
‘That I can’t tell you,’ he replied, ‘or it won’t work. You’d tense up and block the hypnotic message. Knowing that we’re going to hypnotise you will make it hard enough for us. Just wait and see.’
Wonderful, I thought, cursing myself for agreeing so rashly. I felt more apprehensive than ever. At that moment, Orming seemed infinitely preferable!
‘On my command!’ cried Al. The Booklings fell silent. They all gazed at me and started to hum.
I waited.
They went on humming.
I waited some more.
More humming.
Nothing happened. Trombophone music was far more effective! I felt nothing. Nothing at all. I wasn’t even tired. Perhaps there were too many of them. Either that, or they couldn’t hypnotise me because this time I was concentrating. That was it: I couldn’t be hypnotised because I didn’t want to be! I was resistant to hypnosis. I was a strong-willed, unhypnotisable Murch.10
Yes, I was a proud Murch, a Murch in the rutting season. I at once proceeded to blow out my cheeks and murch loudly, thereby asserting my territorial rights and attracting the attention of any female Murches in the vicinity. I waddled around and displayed my majestically inflated cheeks to warn the Booklings off: this was Murch territory, they proclaimed! I ruffled up my feathers and murched with a will, totally imbued with murchdom.
I did my best to ignore the Booklings’ hysterical laughter - Booklings were of no interest to me. But where had the female Murches got to? I was murching with such heart-rending fervour, I couldn’t believe they were deliberately ignoring my irresistible mating calls.
The Booklings’ humming changed pitch, becoming considerably lower, and it occurred to me that I was really a maggot, not a Murch. Of course, I was a bookworm! Why was I, a bookworm, murching around like this? I at once got down on my stomach and crawled along in the dust at the Booklings’ feet. Some of them guffawed and giggled, but I didn’t care. I was engaged on a mission, so I couldn’t allow myself to be distracted by the irrational behaviour of other life forms. I was in quest of a book.
Crawl, crawl, that was my destiny: to crawl until I’d found a book. The silly Booklings could guffaw and slap their thighs all they liked, I simply ignored them. Crawl, keep crawling along through the dust until . . . there, a book at last! I had found a book, the bookworm’s natural foe and, at the same time, its chief source of nourishment! It must be destroyed at once: that was my mission! I fell hungrily upon the rather tattered old to
me. It tasted a trifle mouldy, but I tore it to shreds with my pitiless larval jaws and chewed up every scrap until I’d digested the whole book.
I was feeling thoroughly replete and contented. My mission had been accomplished. What could I do next? It didn’t take me long to decide: I would lay a few eggs. Yes, that’s what I’d do.
A Pike in a Shoal of Trout
That, dear readers, was when my new life began. The Booklings had admitted me to their community and seemed to have resolved to make me forget about my previous existence. In order to dispel my dream of regaining the surface of Bookholm, they involved me in their many and various activities. Although I still felt like a pike in a shoal of trout because of our physical dissimilarities, that feeling of strangeness steadily wore off as the days and weeks went by. The absence of fear: that was what I relished most. In here I was protected, surrounded by a rampart of friends in a comfortable environment abounding in books and marvellous natural phenomena awaiting thorough investigation on my part. I hadn’t altogether suppressed my desire to return to the surface, of course, but I temporarily shelved my plans in that regard. I looked upon my sojourn with the Booklings as an expedition to an alien tribe, an extended research trip for a book I would some day write.
I was surrounded by a living library. By that I don’t mean the weird Bookemistic volumes inside the machine in the Leather Grotto, the ones with eyes and ears; I mean the Booklings themselves, who were round me at all times, continuously reciting passages from the books they had learnt by heart.
I was encompassed by literature wherever I went. One or more Booklings were forever bombarding me with poetry or prose, essays or novellas, aphorisms or sonnets. What may sound like a never-ending burden on the ears and nerves seemed to me like a wonderful dream, because the technical expertise with which the Booklings delivered their recitations was of the highest quality - even better, probably, than that displayed by Bookholm’s Master Readers at their timber-time readings, for the little Cyclopses were more than just professional reciters: they lived their literature. They had an immense range of gestures and expressions despite their physical limitations, and their voices sounded as well trained as those of experienced stage actors. I doubt if anyone who has not actually experienced it can grasp how closely you can study literature when confronted by it in such a vital and uninterrupted manner.
