The Alchemaster's Apprentice - By Walter Moers Page 0,107
why, but I can’t tell her that because I can’t talk to her the way I can to you.’
‘I could drop her a hint,’ Echo said.
‘Would you?’
‘Of course. So you wouldn’t mind if I took a little of your moss?’
‘No, no,’ said the toad, ‘help yourself.’
‘You mean I can jump down on to your back?’
‘Well, I can’t scrape it off for you - I can’t reach the stuff myself.’ The toad looked over its shoulder and raised its short front legs with a tormented croak.
Echo debated with himself. The toad was big and ugly, but did that mean it was dangerous? It certainly didn’t make a devious impression. On the other hand, if you spotted a trap it ceased to be one. He grunted irresolutely.
‘What’s the matter?’ the toad demanded. ‘Changed your mind?’
What had he got to lose? He was under sentence of death in any case. His only means of extricating himself from his predicament was growing on the back of this warty monster. He leapt boldly into the grave.
‘Ah!’ the toad said blissfully. ‘That feels good. Would you mind marking time on the back of my neck for a while? I think I’m suffering from muscle cramp.’
The old creature smelt truly frightful at close range. Echo had landed plumb on its back between some huge warts and a clump of Toadmoss. He would have preferred to get the business over in double-quick time, but he didn’t want to seem discourteous, so he complied with the toad’s request.
‘Ah!’ it said again. ‘You’ve no idea how good that feels. What’s your name, by the way?’
‘Echo. And yours?’
‘Just Toad. I’m the only toad left in this forest, so any more names would be superfluous.’
‘I see,’ said Echo.
He stopped marking time.
‘I’d like to scrape off some of your moss now,’ he said, ‘if it’s all right with you.’
‘Of course,’ said the toad. ‘I’m wasting your precious time. Help yourself.’
Echo drew a deep breath and took a big bite of Toadmoss. He wrenched it off with his teeth, gagging despite himself. It tasted even more revolting than Izanuela’s tongue.
‘There,’ said the toad, ‘now you know what Toadmoss tastes like. Shall I tell you what I’d like to know?’
‘Mm?’ Echo said with his mouth full.
‘I’d like to know what a Crat tastes like.’
The toad opened its slimy jaws as wide as they would go and put out an enormous tongue at least three times the length of its body. Reaching back over its shoulder, the tongue wrapped itself round Echo and popped him into the creature’s gaping mouth, which promptly closed again - all within the bat of an eyelid.
Just as he had been when falling from the castle roof, Echo was far too astonished to feel scared. ‘Ghoolion’s going to be mighty disappointed,’ was the only thought that occurred to him.
But the toad didn’t swallow him.
It opened its mouth and extended its tongue, Echo and all. Having deposited him on the edge of the grave, the creature retracted it again.
‘You taste of absolutely nothing,’ it observed in a reproachful voice.
‘The Leathermice said that too,’ Echo thought dazedly. He was covered in toad slobber from head to foot, but he still had the Toadmoss in his mouth.
‘So I haven’t been missing anything,’ said the toad. ‘I apologise, my friend. Don’t take it personally, it was only an experiment.’
Echo retreated a few steps for safety’s sake.
‘Best of luck with that moss!’ he heard the toad call. ‘And look in on me again some time. I could use a massage like that occasionally. It would be nice to see you again.’
Echo turned and made his way out of the forest as fast as his paws would carry him.
Alchemy and Ugglimy
‘Now the Alchemist’s away
I’m at liberty to play,
and shall now, for good or ill,
bend his spirits to my will.
Having marked his words and ways
carefully these many days,
ready to perform am I
miracles of alchemy.’
The old poem by Aleisha Wimpersleak, which Izanuela was now reciting, could not have been more appropriate to the occasion. Echo had returned to the Uggly’s house late that night to assist her in preparing the love potion.
‘Copious streams of sweat shall flow
from my overheated brow,
as I brew the magic broth
that will help me plight my troth,’
said Echo, who had been reminded of another poem.
‘Ah!’ Izanuela exclaimed. ‘You’re familiar with the Zamonian classics, I see. That was from “Love Soup” by Wamilli Swordthrow, wasn’t it? We’re really getting into the swing of things! There’s nothing more essential to Ugglimical potion-brewing than sympathetic vibrations.’