The Alchemaster's Apprentice - By Walter Moers Page 0,43
their disappearance and the vines’ exceptional growth. It was dusk when he entered the vineyard and he rejoiced to see that his vines were more luxuriant than ever. He picked a grape and tasted it. It was plump and sweet, and twice the size of a normal grape. Then he stroked a leaf to see if it was free from disease. The vine seemed to recoil as he touched it, but he dismissed the notion; no plant could move quicker than the eye can see. He lifted a few more leaves to see if the movement had been occasioned by some insect, but there was nothing there.’
Ghoolion had now begun to pace up and down in front of Echo’s table.
‘Satisfied, the murderer made his way further into the vineyard. The light was fading fast as he went in search of another victim. He soon came upon one: a young woman picking grapes higher up the slope, far enough from the rest for him to be able to go about his bloody business undisturbed. She gave a start when he materialised beside her, but was reassured to see that it was only her employer and went on working. The winegrower tore off some tendrils and twisted them together to form a noose - an ideal murder weapon that could simply be tossed into the undergrowth when the deed was done. Just then, he caught his foot in the nearest vine and tugged at it impatiently in an attempt to free himself.
‘But the tendrils tightened about his ankles, first one, then the other. Realising that something was amiss, he uttered a terrified cry. The grape-picker straightened up in alarm. One look at the noose in her employer’s hands told her that he was the murderer, so she took to her heels. The winegrower tried to follow her, but the tendrils secured him to the ground like iron chains. The vine had now encircled his wrists, arms and legs, and one particularly strong tendril was winding itself about his neck. The ground beneath him opened like a grave and roots came snaking out of it. A big vine leaf plastered itself to the murderer’s mouth, smothering his cries. He was dragged into the depths. Earth and leaves, pebbles and twigs came raining down, roots wrapped themselves round him like a cocoon.
‘And then the murderer’s victims made their appearance. They emerged from the ground, which was heaving like a storm-tossed sea, in various stages of decomposition. Thanks to the way in which the roots made the corpses rise and fall and their limbs swing to and fro, they looked as if they’d been restored to life. The winegrower was still conscious when the dead, with him as their prey, buried themselves in the ground once more. Everything grew darker and darker, until, in the end, his eyes became clogged with blood-soaked soil and he breathed his last.’
Ghoolion fell silent.
‘Did the wine tell you all that?’ asked Echo.
The Alchemaster reached for the glass he’d laid aside and held it up.
‘Yes, it did,’ he replied. ‘It’s a very talkative wine. The story it told was pretty gruesome, I know, but that’s no reflection on the wine itself.’
So saying, he drained the glass at a gulp. Echo went over to one of his bowls and refreshed himself likewise. The queasy sensation that had overcome him subsided at once.
‘And now,’ Ghoolion said brightly, ‘the next stage in our tasting.’ He poured himself a glass of white wine.
‘You mean there’s more?’ said Echo.
‘Yes indeed. We’re now going to establish telepathic contact with the wine and extract its every last secret. What of its philosophical qualities? Is it optimistic or pessimistic? Is it lively or dull? Does drinking it render you exuberantly cheerful or lugubriously introspective? Is it the kind of wine that breeds ideas notable for their precision and razor-sharp logic, or brutish instinctive urges that could culminate in a tavern brawl? Only one thing can answer that question, and that’s the wine’s most volatile ingredient: its spirit. In other words its alcoholic content.’
Ghoolion’s eyes clouded over and his shoulders drooped a little. He had returned to reality and his favourite field of study: volatile substances. Echo was afraid he might go back to work at once.
Instead, he merely drained his glass. ‘Aaah!’ he said. ‘A definite optimist, this wine! A free-thinking aesthete - one wouldn’t mind having a few cases of it in one’s cellar.’ He hurled his glass into the fireplace, where it shattered.