The Alchemaster's Apprentice - By Walter Moers Page 0,13

mysteries of nature I could glean from them!’

Oh yes, thought Echo, he’d love to be able to converse with animals. He’d probably stretch them on the rack and interrogate them with the aid of thumbscrews and the garrotte.

‘Carry on,’ Ghoolion called. ‘Enjoy yourself on the roof.’

Echo was now standing at the entrance, peering up into the gloom. The stairs were very ancient, the wooden treads worn away and worm-eaten. They looked thoroughly uninviting, each step being warped and eroded in its own particular way. In the dim light, Echo seemed to see gaping mouths filled with splintered wooden teeth, glaring eye sockets and ferocious phantoms. It was all he could do to mount the first step, which emitted an agonised groan at the touch of his paw.

‘Up you go,’ Ghoolion called again. ‘They can support my heavy old bones, so a flyweight like you has nothing to fear.’

Gingerly, Echo started to climb. The stairwell really did smell of millennially stale air and rotting cadavers, like an ancient tomb unopened for an eternity, but he bravely persevered, step by step. The higher he went, the darker and mustier it became. The existing smells were joined before long by an acrid stench. Below him, he heard Ghoolion haul on the string of bones, and the bookcase began to creak back into its original position.

‘Don’t worry,’ called the Alchemaster, ‘they only bite at night!’ Then everything went pitch-black.

Echo’s throat tightened and his legs trembled a little, but he valiantly climbed on, feeling for each step with his forepaws. This ‘mark of respect’, as Ghoolion had called it - he wanted to get it over as soon as possible. What cheek! Nobody had ever said anything about his having to be nice to some lousy Leathermice in order to reach his breakfast. The acrid stench was now so strong that he gagged despite himself.

‘Hello?’ he called. ‘Leathermice?’

He couldn’t detect any more stairs ahead, so he must have reached the top. The floor beneath his paws felt rough and uneven. Above him, in the little light available, he seemed to see a high, vaulted ceiling. Only a few rays of sunlight were piercing the dark grey dome like silver needles.

‘Leathermice?’ he called again. Were there any Leathermice up here, or was it all a poor joke on the part of Ghoolion, who wanted to put him to the test? No, Ghoolion didn’t make jokes.

Echo pricked up his ears. Yes, there was something there - or someone. He could hear a sound like fingers leafing slowly through an ancient book whose pages were stuck together. A rustling, sibilant sound.

‘Leathermice?’ he called for the third time.

‘You’re repeating yourself,’ said a high-pitched, piping voice in the gloom. It sounded snappish and hostile. ‘Yes, there are some Leathermice here. What do you want?’

Echo didn’t hesitate. ‘Alchemaster Ghoolion sent me. I have to get to the roof and I’m told I need your permission.’

‘Oh, really?’ said the voice, half wary, half contemptuous.

‘Yes, really,’ said Echo. He decided to adopt a brisk, self-assured manner. Show no weakness, he told himself. Impudence wins the day.

‘To be honest, though,’ he went on, ‘I don’t give a damn for your permission. I’m going up to the roof anyway. I don’t need the consent of a bunch of mice.’

‘We aren’t mice, we’re Leathermice.’

‘Mice, Leathermice - what’s the difference?’ Echo said scornfully.

‘We can fly.’

‘We can bite.’

‘We can suck blood.’

This time, Echo got the impression that three different voices had answered him. Now that his eyes were slowly getting used to the darkness, he could see more and more. Something was stirring overhead - no, the whole ceiling was in motion! At first he thought the wind was disturbing some animal hides Ghoolion had hung up on washing lines to dry. But this was movement of a different, animate nature. Long, leathery wings were being unfolded, sharp claws unsheathed, teeth bared. Evil little eyes were staring at him in the gloom. Nestling close together upside down, the vampires were suspended above him like a single, gigantic creature. Echo had expected them to number at least a few dozen, possibly even a few hundred, but he now saw to his consternation that they were clinging to the rafters in their thousands.

His eyes had finally become accustomed to the lighting conditions, so he could now identify the source of the acrid smell that was almost stupefying him. The rough, uneven floor beneath him was really an expanse of desiccated Leathermouse excrement. He was standing on all four paws in