The Alchemaster's Apprentice - By Walter Moers Page 0,19

his rough little tongue until nothing was left but bare bones.

Then, with a contented grunt, he stretched out on the moss for a brief digestive siesta. As he contemplated the pigeon’s pale skeleton with a meditative eye and rolled it playfully to and fro with his paws, his mood darkened. It horrified him to think of the trouble Ghoolion was taking to fatten him up. The Alchemaster had actually hauled a bathtub all the way up here, possibly at the risk of his own life. He had embedded it in the moss and filled it with bucket after bucket of milk. He had not only roasted that delicious pigeon but obtained the dolls’ clothes and fashioned the little boats. How deadly serious he must be, and how eager to see his victim’s scrawny frame put on weight! Echo sprang to his feet, suddenly wide awake again.

Feeling uneasy and shivering a little, he climbed still higher. It was quite impossible to explore the roof systematically. The stairways would sometimes lead upwards or downwards for no apparent reason, then turn a corner and end abruptly in a sloping expanse of tiles. When that happened there was nothing for it but to retrace one’s steps or scale the precipitous slope. Echo occasionally peered in through the triangular window embrasures that gaped everywhere, but all he could see was total darkness. Were the Leathermice in there, or was there another loft beneath this confounded roof, the real loft that shielded the vampires from wind and weather? Now and then he came across strange carved ornaments, bizarre stone sculptures and grotesque gargoyles. He felt like an explorer discovering the ruins of a vanished civilisation.

There! Yet another appetising aroma in the air! Fried sausages? Fishcakes? Grilled chicken? In search of its source, Echo stole round a corner and came upon another spot where Ghoolion had created an artificial paradise for Crats. Protruding from a smallish, flattish expanse of roof was a tall red brick chimney, which the Alchemaster had transformed into a travesty of a Christmas tree with the aid of florist’s wire and sprigs of fir. Suspended from them on thin strings were some rib-tickling titbits: crisp-skinned fried sausages, dainty little fishcakes, lamb cutlets scented with garlic, breaded chicken drumsticks and crispy wings. Beneath them stood a pot of fresh, sweetened cream.

Echo inhaled deeply. His dark thoughts promptly evaporated, his mouth started watering. He proceeded to knock the little snacks off the ‘tree’ with his paw and devour them. Far from as simple and unsophisticated as it had seemed at first sight, the cuisine displayed definite expertise. The sausages were stuffed with tiny shrimps, chopped onions and grated apple, and seasoned with sage; the drumsticks had clearly been marinated for days in red wine, with the result that their pale-pink meat dissolved on the tongue like butter. The lamb cutlets had been wrapped in raw ham, studded with rosemary and then fried. Everything tasted superb.

‘Well?’ a voice said suddenly. ‘Enjoying it?’

Echo was so startled that the lamb cutlet he was eating fell out of his mouth. He looked left and right but couldn’t see a soul.

‘Up here!’ called the voice.

Echo looked up at the chimney. Poking out of it was the head of a Cyclopean Tuwituwu, which was staring at him with its single piercing eye.

‘I asked if you were enjoying it.’ The Tuwituwu had a deep, resonant voice. ‘I sope ho, anyway.’

Sope ho? Had the bird said ‘sope ho’?

‘Many thanks,’ Echo replied cautiously. ‘Yes, I am. Is this your food I’ve been eating?’

‘Oh, no,’ said the Tuwituwu, ‘I never touch the stuff, I just live here. The chimney is my desirence.’

‘I didn’t realise anyone lived up there.’

‘Well, now you know. But keep it to yourself, I wouldn’t like it pade mublic. Permit me to indrotuce myself. My name is Theodore T. Theodore, but you may call me Theo.’

Echo didn’t venture to ask what the T between the two Theodores stood for. Theodore, perhaps.

‘Delighted to meet you,’ he said. ‘My name is Echo. You really live in this chimney?’

‘Yes, it’s never used. It has a little roof of its own, that’s good enough for me.’ The Tuwituwu stared at Echo in silence. ‘If you can conummicate with me,’ it said at length, ‘you must be a Crat.’

‘That’s right,’ Echo replied, ‘I am.’

‘You’ve got two livers, did you know that? I’m something of an expert on gioloby.’

‘Biology, you mean.’

Theodore behaved as if he hadn’t heard.

‘It would scafinate me to know how you got past the Meatherlice,’