The Alchemaster's Apprentice - By Walter Moers Page 0,12

teeth and claws embedded in several wooden cages bore witness to their inmates’ desperate attempts to escape, and many an iron bar was encrusted with dried blood. Whether muscular bear or colourful bird of paradise, snake or polecat, Ubufant or Zamingo, all Ghoolion’s captives had ended up in his cauldron. The Ghoolionic Preserver had reduced them to a scent encased in fat and stored in the castle cellar. Echo could conceive of no grislier fate. Everything here reminded him of death.

But he was hungry nonetheless. Although he had sworn before going to sleep that he would eat nothing for the next three days, all the dishes he’d consumed had been digested. Moreover, Ghoolion’s opulent menu had stretched his stomach to such an extent that it now felt even emptier than before. It dawned on Echo that hunger was considerably easier to endure with an empty belly.

‘Ah, there’s my little gourmet!’ Ghoolion exclaimed brightly, as Echo came stealing into the laboratory. He was engaged in weighing some gold dust with little lead weights and a pair of alchemical scales. ‘Sleep well? How about a hearty breakfast?’

‘Nice of you to ask,’ Echo replied. ‘I had an excellent sleep, thank you, and I am feeling a trifle hungry - in spite of that banquet last night.’

‘Banquet be damned!’ Ghoolion said contemptuously. ‘That was nothing, just a taster. A few hors d’oeuvres.’

Echo wandered around the laboratory in a subdued frame of mind. Simmering in the cauldron was a large bird whose contorted foot, complete with claws, was protruding from the bubbling brew.

Ghoolion had noticed Echo seated beside the cauldron. ‘That’s a Doodo,’ he said. ‘Or rather, it was a Doodo. The last of its kind, I’m afraid.’

‘Perhaps I’m also the last of my kind,’ Echo said softly, averting his eyes from the gruesome sight.

‘That’s quite possible,’ said Ghoolion. ‘More than possible, in fact.’

Echo was beginning to fathom the Alchemaster’s thought processes. It would never have occurred to Ghoolion that his guest might be distressed by such a heartless remark. Echo’s feelings were a matter of supreme indifference to him. He simply said what he thought, no matter how hurtful.

Ghoolion jotted down some notes in a notebook, muttering to himself, then reeled off one alchemical formula after another. He seemed to have forgotten all about Echo, who preserved a tactful silence so as not to spoil his host’s concentration. After a while, however, Echo’s little stomach rumbled loudly enough to be heard all over the laboratory. Ghoolion broke off with a start and looked over at him.

‘Please forgive me!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’m rather behindhand with my work today, that’s whyI … Listen, how about helping yourself to some breakfast? You need only go up to the roof, where you’ll find everything to your satisfaction.’

‘The roof?’ said Echo.

‘It’s a fine day and fresh air is healthy. Crats like roaming around on roofs, don’t they?’

Echo gave a cautious nod. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I like roofs.’

‘There’s just one thing…A pure formality.’

‘Which is?’

‘The Leathermice.’

‘What about them?’

Ghoolion looked up at the ceiling. ‘The loft of this castle belongs to them, in a manner of speaking. An unwritten agreement. I allow them to sleep there undisturbed. In return, they do me the occasional … well, favour.’

‘You seem to like making deals with animals,’ Echo remarked.

Ghoolion ignored this. ‘If you’re going up to the roof,’ he went on, ‘you’ll have to pass through the loft and that’s Leathermouse territory. You must ask permission to cross it, that’s all. It’s just a mark of respect. Unless you’re scared of them?’

No, Echo wasn’t scared. Leathermice were only mice, after all. Mice with wings, but so what? He wasn’t afraid of their wrinkled faces, or their claws, or their sharp teeth. Crats had claws and teeth themselves - considerably more effective ones than flying mice. They were welcome to try sucking his blood. He would soon show them the difference in status between Crats and Leathermice.

‘No,’ he said, ‘I’m not scared.’

Ghoolion tugged at a string of bones dangling from the ceiling. With a creak, a junk-laden bookcase sank slowly into the floor to reveal a worn old wooden stairway leading up into the darkness.

‘That’s the way to the loft,’ said Ghoolion, ‘the Leathermousoleum, as I call it. It is rather reminiscent of a tomb, just as the Leathermice are rather morbid creatures. Give them my regards!’

He readdressed himself to his grains of gold dust.

‘You can talk to them. I can’t, unfortunately. How I envy your ability to converse with animals! To think of all the