The Alchemaster's Apprentice - By Walter Moers Page 0,53

identified by the huge teeth and forceps over its doors as the place where dentists plied their agonising trade. But this wasn’t his destination either. Already feeling dizzy, he skirted the ether factory, where the air always smelt so stupefying, and made his way past the naturopaths’ herb garden, which smelt considerably more fragrant. Before he knew it he had set off up the long, winding lane that led to the Alchemaster’s castle. He was now running as fast as he could, he was so eager to get there.

Home at last! Ghoolion was standing in the entrance, holding a lantern.

‘I’ve been expecting you,’ he said as Echo slipped past him.

It wasn’t until he was inside that he stopped short and looked around in bewilderment.

‘What am I doing here?’ he asked, like someone awaking from a dream.

‘Keeping your part of our bargain,’ said Ghoolion and he blew out the lantern.

The Fat Cellar

‘I know you helped yourself to some sustenance on the roof today,’ Ghoolion said as he strode along the passages with Echo slinking after him, ‘so I’ll forget about supper for once, if you don’t mind. However, I’d like to show you something before you retire to your basket.’

Echo, who was still bemused, didn’t reply. He couldn’t think what had happened, only that he’d done something against his will, and this filled him with a mixture of rage and alarm. He felt as if he’d temporarily lost his wits.

‘We’ll have to go down to the cellars,’ Ghoolion said firmly, setting off down a flight of stairs. ‘I don’t think you’re familiar with that part of the castle, are you?’

No, Echo had never visited it. He would never have descended that age-old staircase and plunged into the dank darkness on his own and of his own free will. Weren’t cellars an ideal place in which to be hit over the head from behind with a coal shovel? Or drowned in a cask of wine? Or walled up alive? Was Ghoolion’s overly pleasant manner just the prelude to an all the more unpleasant punishment for his attempt to escape?

Having reached the bottom of the stairs, the Alchemaster picked up a lantern and tapped on the glass with his fingernails. At this, the swarm of tiny will-o’-the-wisps inside it took wing and flitted around, producing a weird, multicoloured glow that made Echo feel uneasier still. They set off along cold, bare, vaulted passages inhabited by more creepy-crawlies than he liked. Black beetles fled into the darkness on powerful legs, protesting in their staccato insect language, when Ghoolion appeared with his ghostly lantern. Spiders sailed down from the ceiling and tottered sleepily across the uneven flagstones. Scorpions the size of king crabs disappeared into cracks in the wall, lashing their tails. The ancient pile overhead groaned as if tired of supporting its own weight after so many centuries.

‘Where are we going, Master?’ Echo asked anxiously.

‘First I want to show you the fat cellar,’ Ghoolion replied. ‘That’s where your fat will be stored until I process it.’

Echo felt as if he’d just walked over his own grave. The idea of ending up down here was unbearable. The Alchemaster’s brutal candour had rendered him speechless.

‘Here we are,’ said Ghoolion. He halted in front of a lofty stone archway enclosing a heavy iron door secured by seven padlocks. He put the lantern down and set to work on them.

‘You’re welcome to think me overcautious, installing all these locks, but this chamber contains the most precious possessions I’ve ever owned in my life. This, for instance,’ said Ghoolion, pointing to the uppermost padlock, ‘is an acoustico-elemental lock. It’s not unlike the open-sesame locks of ancient times, but it’ll only respond to the names of certain elements recited in the correct order. It’s also equipped with a phenomenal safety device that renders it unopenable even by someone who knows the formula. Listen!

‘Bismuth, niobium, antimony!’ he cried and the padlock sprang open. He locked it again and told Echo to copy him.

‘Vermouth, binomium, myoniant!’ cried Echo, although he had carefully memorised the correct words.

‘Try again,’ Ghoolion told him.

‘Mouthwash, gargle, cinnamon,’ cried Echo. ‘Damnation! I know the words but my tongue muddles them up.’

‘Even I don’t know how these things work,’ Ghoolion said with a laugh. ‘An alchemistic locksmith manufactures them in the Impic Alps, in the strictest secrecy. Bismuth, niobium, antimony!’

The lock clicked open again.

‘Try again now it’s open.’

‘Bismuth, niobium, antimony!’ Echo sang out. ‘That’s odd, I can say them now.’

‘Too late,’ Ghoolion said with a grin. ‘Now take a