The Alchemaster's Apprentice - By Walter Moers Page 0,20

he went on. ‘You’re the first creature to set foot on this roof that didn’t wossess pings.’

Scafinate? Wossess pings? Echo was becoming more and more puzzled by Theodore’s speech patterns. ‘I simply talked to them,’ he replied.

‘Ah, the art of genotiation,’ said Theodore. ‘I understand now. You’re a born miplodat.’

Echo caught on at last: Theodore obviously had a problem with words. Or a broplem, as he would have put it.

‘I’d sooner use my brains than my claws.’

‘So you conummicated with them instead of fighting. You’re a facipist!’ Theodore exclaimed. ‘That’s splendid - we couldn’t be more alike in our views. Any disagreement can be resolved by dational riscussion.’

‘You know a lot of long words,’ said Echo.

‘You can say that again,’ Theodore replied, fluffing out his chest a little. ‘I’m a molypath, a walking endyclocepia, an autorithy of the first order. However, I’m not interested showing off my uniserval brilliance, just in guinlistic precision. You don’t need to have gone to uniservity for that. Personal itiniative is enough.’

‘Are you another of Ghoolion’s tenants?’

‘I’ll ignore that question! I’ve nothing to do with that crinimal invididual! I occupied this chimney in tropest against Ghoolion’s evil chaminations.’

‘You aren’t too fond of him, then?’

‘I’m not the only one, either! He’s a despot, a social rapasite. He infects and tancominates the whole town. As long as he continues to modinate it the inhabitants will never be free. What we need is a relovution! A relovution of the trolepariat of Lamaisea!’

Echo involuntarily glanced around to see if anyone was listening.

‘Aren’t you being a little rash, sounding off like this?’ he asked in a low voice. ‘I mean, I’m a total stranger, and you -’

‘No, no, not a stranger,’ the Tuwituwu broke in soothingly, ‘I know all about you. You’re a victim of Ghoolion’s almechistic aspirations. He plans to slaughter you and fat you of your strip.’

‘How did you know?’

‘In the first place, because he does that to all kinds of creatures except Meatherlice. I know everything - everything! I’ve had this building under vurseillance for many years. I know every chimney, every pecret sassage. I’ve seen the animals in their cages. I’ve seen him reduce them to falls of bat. Now, only the cages are left.’

‘You creep around inside the chimneys?’ said Echo. ‘Why?’

‘To keep an eye on Ghoolion and his doings. I’m everywhere and nowhere. Nobody sees me, but I see everything. I’ve eavesdropped on many of Ghoolion’s molitary sonologues. I know his ambitious plans, his tatolitarian dreams.’

‘Isn’t that rather risky?’ asked Echo. ‘I mean, if he caught you …’

Theodore ignored this question too. He leant over, opened his one eye wide, and whispered: ‘Listen, my friend. You’re in great danger. Ghoolion aims to be the creator of life and master of death, no less. Megalomaniacal though it sounds, he’s on the verge of filfulling that ambition and you’re the last little mog in his cachine.’

‘How do you know that?’

The Tuwituwu fluffed out his chest again.

‘Just an above-average pacacity for working things out, perhaps, or a flair for tedection, or a stininctive feeling. Call it initution, if you like. There have lately been many incidations that an acopalyptic miclax, a sidaster of uncepredented gamnitude, is in the offing! And things have speeded up since your arrival. Ghoolion has never been so cheerful. You should have seen him at his exmeripents last night. He was in the heventh seaven!’

Echo was becoming suspicious. How could he be sure that this bizarre bird was telling the truth? Perhaps it was a confederate of Ghoolion’s under orders to test him.

‘Why are you telling me all this?’

‘Because you’re the only one who can stop him,’ the Tuwituwu whispered.

‘Meaning what?’

‘For some siconderable time now, the Master Almechist has been skimming off and preserving the fat of rare animals - their olfactory soul, so to speak. He blends these fats and fragrances again and again in the lebief that this will produce a masic baterial from which he can create new life. I lebieve him to be so close to that goal that he hopes to attain it at the next full moon. All he needs is the fat and the soul of one last animal: a Crat, as your presence here implies. The way I see it, you’re the last meraining emelent in his master plan. Your fat is the one missing indegrient. Only you can put the bikosh on the whole idea.’

‘Really?’ said Echo. ‘How, exactly?’

‘It’s quite simple: run away. Bill your felly for a few days, then disappear into the