The Alchemaster's Apprentice - By Walter Moers Page 0,57

King of the Crazies - I’ve read his autobiography, which he wrote with the severed hand of his favourite psychiatrist. It was he who had the glass removed from all the windows. This was to enable him to fly freely into outer space when commanded to do so by the inhabitants of Harpalyke, one of the moons of Jupiter. He remained firmly convinced of this until his death, which occurred the day he thought he’d heard the call and jumped out of a window. Instead of landing on Harpalyke, the King of the Crazies went splat on the cobblestones of Malaisea, where he left a stain that can still be seen to this day. It has gone down in the town’s annals as “the Harpalyke Stain”.’

Echo was mentally and physically exhausted. His legs were almost buckling under him and his brain was scarcely capable of absorbing any more of this ghastly tale, but Ghoolion showed no sign of bringing his tour to an end.

‘The rest of the inmates gradually died off,’ he continued, ‘and the building stood empty for another two-and-a-half centuries, largely because people were afraid the mysterious mental illness might still be lurking there. It was temporarily occupied by a pack of werewolves, but only until they were smoked out by what was, by Malaisean standards, an exceptionally efficient mayor. The townsfolk decided to seal the building and abandon it. Since it evidently brought its occupants no luck, it could be left to fall into decay.’

Ghoolion came to an abrupt halt. They were standing in front of an ancient, lichen-encrusted door that looked as if it might disintegrate at a touch.

‘And that was how this tough old pile came into my possession. The townsfolk thought I was crazy when I waived my salary in return for free accommodation on taking up my post as the municipal Alchemaster-in-Chief. They not only allowed me to live in the building rent free - they formally made it over to me. That took it off their hands, at least symbolically.’

Ghoolion gave a hoarse laugh. He depressed the latch and pushed the door open with his bony shoulder.

The Snow-White Widow

‘This door is never locked,’ Ghoolion said with a grin. ‘It isn’t necessary. If anyone broke in to steal what lies behind it, he’d soon regret it more that he’s ever regretted anything in his life.’

They entered the dark chamber together. Ghoolion raised his lantern and its multicoloured glow picked out something in the gloomy interior. In the middle of the chamber was an object resembling a small, conical tent made of red cloth. It was about two metres in diameter and a metre-and-a-half high.

‘What’s that?’ Echo asked apprehensively.

‘You’ve every reason to feel afraid,’ Ghoolion whispered. ‘Fear can be a very salutary emotion.’

Echo had no intention of going near the thing, whatever it was.

‘If it’s so dangerous,’ he said plaintively, ‘perhaps we’d better go.’

‘What, turn back having come this far?’ said Ghoolion. ‘Without even looking to see what’s hidden beneath that cloth? You disappoint me, my young friend. Where’s your alchemistic spirit of adventure?’

‘My alchemistic spirit of adventure isn’t strongly enough developed for me to want to risk my life.’

‘We won’t be risking your life,’ Ghoolion said gravely. ‘What I want to show you is potentially dangerous in the extreme, but it’s a unique sight, I assure you. It’s so extraordinary, you’ll never forget it. The decision is yours, of course. If you’d sooner go, we’ll go.’

Echo hesitated. The Alchemaster’s offer seemed quite genuine, but he was being nagged by curiosity. If he went away now, without looking under the cloth, the image of that red dome and the question of what lay beneath it would be bound to haunt his dreams.

‘All right,’ he said, ‘show me.’

Ghoolion smiled. ‘There!’ he said. ‘That’s the spirit!’

He raised the cloth to reveal a cloche of transparent glass. The exterior was reinforced with gold latticework, which made it look like an expensive birdcage. Copper valves were inserted in the metal mesh and brass tubes protruded from the cloche at various points. Echo could hear a sound like the subdued whistle of a boiling kettle. Seated inside the cloche was the most remarkable creature he had ever seen.

‘There she is!’ Ghoolion sighed. ‘The Snow-White Widow! Isn’t she beautiful?’

‘No!’ thought Echo, who had stiffened from his nose to the tip of his tail. ‘No, she isn’t!’ On the contrary, if he had been asked to pick the life form least deserving of the epithet ‘beautiful’, it would have been the