The Alchemaster's Apprentice - By Walter Moers Page 0,44
bit between his teeth,’ thought Echo and he treated himself to another little bowl of wine. His feeling of gaiety was verging on the euphoric.
Ghoolion poured himself such a generous glass of dark red wine that it overflowed.
‘And now,’ he cried, ‘the tasting proper!’
Seemingly quite unworried by the amount of red liquid that was trickling down his chin and into his collar, Ghoolion took an enormous swig and held it in his mouth. He chewed it for an unconscionable length of time before gulping it down and draining the rest of the glass.
‘Aaaaah! Precocious, but already full of character! A stout backbone of walnuts and strawberries. Playful, but in an earthy, honest way. A trace of liquorice lingers on the uvula before it plumbs the depths of the oesophagus. A note of maturity reminiscent of an old violin playing a familiar lullaby. The inevitable peach flavours that lurk in every red, but crisply coated in biscuit crumbs. I detect candle grease. Virgin snow. Gingerbread. Lack of finesse offset by a youthful acidity which is somewhat rough around the edges but well nailed down. I also get young leather, rusty iron, damp carpets, glazier’s putty, pine needles. Roast goose, too, and my late grandmother’s blackberry tart. Full-bodied, but I’d describe it as plump rather than fat, with excessively large feet. The finish, which is as broad as it’s long, like the note of an ancient funeral bell tolling in the subterranean vaults of a catacomb inhabited by seven hundred naked, starving dwarfs, is lubricated by a soupçon of olive oil.’
Ghoolion hurled that glass, too, into the fire. Then, clearly yielding to a spontaneous impulse, he took a Horrificomonica from a shelf. Stationing himself at one of the open windows, he applied his bloodless lips to the instrument and proceeded to blow a few experimental notes. The kitchen was filled with their plaintive sound.
Echo braced himself. The evening was threatening to take an unpleasant turn. He had been compelled to endure many of the Alchemaster’s musical recitals down in the town, and they’d been almost intolerable even at that distance. Now that he was having to submit to one at close range, he feared for his sanity.
But his fears were dispelled once the first few proper notes rang out. They were so pure, so beautiful and melodious, that it was hard to believe a Horrificomonica could produce them. The sounds Ghoolion coaxed from his instrument were more like those made by a flute; in fact, many were reminiscent of a harp. Echo started to caper around on the tabletop - he simply couldn’t help it. Ghoolion also began to dance, beating out the rhythm with his iron-shod feet.
Unable to restrain himself any longer, Echo leapt off the table and joined in the Alchemaster’s dance. He cavorted across the kitchen more wildly and uninhibitedly than he had ever done in his life. Ghoolion’s playing became ever louder, his zapateado ever faster. Meanwhile, Echo went bouncing over the tables and benches like a rubber ball. They continued to dance their frantic, seemingly indefatigable tarantella until, all of a sudden, Ghoolion stopped playing and flopped down on a chair, utterly exhausted. Echo, too, noticed that he’d overdone it. He stretched out on the floor, rolled over on his back and stared at the ceiling. Oddly enough, the room began to rotate.
After a short breather Ghoolion sprang to his feet, gave him a glassy stare and lurched towards the door.
‘Hey, where you going, Mashter?’ Echo said thickly. ‘We were jusht getting into the shwing of thingsh.’
‘Even the most sociable wine connoisseur has to perform one part of every tasting by himself,’ Ghoolion called over his shoulder.
‘You mean there’sh another part?’ asked Echo.
‘Yes,’ the Alchemaster said hoarsely, ‘the passing of water!’ And he disappeared through the kitchen door with his cloak billowing out behind him.
Echo continued to lie there, grinning foolishly to himself and listening to Ghoolion’s hoarse laughter. The old devil doesn’t seem such a bad sort, he thought as his eyes closed and he lapsed into a tipsy torpor filled with dreams as sweet as ripe grapes.
The Tree of Nutledge
Echo found it an effort to open his bleary eyes. When he finally ungummed them, Ghoolion was standing over him, staring down with a face devoid of expression. Bright early morning sunlight was streaming in through the kitchen windows. As motionless as if he’d been struck by a bolt from the blue, the Alchemaster resembled one of his own stuffed mummies. Roused at last by this