The Alchemaster's Apprentice - By Walter Moers Page 0,1
sinister experiments. His clothes were permanently impregnated with those odours, which caused nausea and breathlessness in anyone but Ghoolion himself, and they hurried on ahead of him like the clatter he made - like a detachment of invisible bodyguards clearing the way for the municipal alchemist-in-chief.
The street emptied in a flash. Only the emaciated little Crat continued to sit there as Ghoolion rounded the corner and focused his piercing gaze on the only creature bold enough to bar his path. But Echo didn’t take to his heels even then; his one remaining fear was the prospect of starving to death, which now governed all he did. Even if a pack of savage Woodwolves had appeared with a Spiderwitch at their head, Echo would still have sat tight in the vain hope that one of them would toss him a morsel of something edible.
So Ghoolion drew nearer and nearer. Coming to a halt, he bent down and submitted the little Crat to a long, pitiless stare. The breeze stirred his necklace of bones and his eyes shone with undisguised pleasure at the sufferings of a creature so close to death. The stench of ammonia and ether, sulphur and naphtha, prussic acid and quicklime stung Echo’s sensitive little nose like a swarm of bees, but he didn’t budge an inch.
‘Can you spare me a morsel to eat, Sir Alchemaster?’ he whimpered pathetically. ‘I’m awfully hungry.’
Ghoolion’s eyes gleamed even more demonically and a broad grin appeared on his bloodless gargoyle of a face. He put out a long, spindly forefinger and ran it over Echo’s protruding ribs.
‘So you can speak, can you?’ he said. ‘Then you aren’t an ordinary cat, you’re a Crat. One of the last surviving specimens of your breed.’ His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. ‘How about selling me your body fat?’
‘Very funny, Sir Alchemaster,’ Echo replied politely. ‘I’m very partial to black humour, so you’re welcome to poke fun at a poor little Crat with one paw in the grave. However, please forgive me for not laughing at this particular moment. The laugh stuck in my throat and I was so hungry I swallowed it.’
‘I’m not joking,’ snapped Ghoolion. ‘I never make jokes. Besides, I’m not talking about the fat on your ribs at present - there isn’t any. I mean the fat you’re going to put on.’
‘Put on?’ Echo was puzzled but suddenly hopeful. The very words sounded nutritious.
‘It’s like this …’ said Ghoolion, modifying his tone of voice until it sounded almost amiable. ‘Crat fat is a well-established aid to alchemistic research. It preserves the smell of bubonic plague three times more effectively than dog’s fat. Leyden Manikins impregnated with Crat fat remain animate for twice as long as usual, and it lubricates a perpetual-motion machine better than any other form of grease.’
‘Delighted to hear that my breed is capable of producing a substance of such high quality,’ Echo said almost inaudibly. ‘At the moment, though, I can’t spare a single ounce.’
‘I can see that for myself,’ said Ghoolion, sounding stern and overbearing once more. ‘I shall fatten you up.’
‘Fatten me up?’ thought Echo. That sounded more nutritious still.
‘I shall feed you as you’ve never been fed before. I shall prepare your meals personally, because I’m not only an alchemistic virtuoso but a master chef. I’m talking about the most exquisite delicacies, not just common or garden Crat food. I’m talking about parfaits and soufflés, poached quails’ eggs and frogs’ tongues in aspic, tuna tartare and bird’s-nest soup.’
Although he had never heard of such dishes, Echo’s mouth was watering. ‘And what do I have to do in return?’
‘Donate your fat, as I said. We alchemists need it, but it only works if we acquire it on a voluntary basis. We can’t just go out and slaughter a couple of Crats, more’s the pity.’ Ghoolion sighed and shrugged his bony shoulders.
‘I see,’ said Echo. He was beginning to get the Alchemaster’s drift.
‘We’ll strike a bargain, we creatures of the night. It’s full moon today. I’ll undertake to feed you till the next full moon - regale you with dishes of the highest quality. Parfaits and soufflés, poached quails’ eggs and -’
‘Yes, yes,’ Echo broke in, ‘please get to the point.’
‘Well, then you keep your part of the bargain. I’m afraid there’s still no way of extracting a Crat’s fat without … Need I say more?’
Ghoolion drew a long, sharp fingernail across his throat, just below the Adam’s apple.