The Alchemaster's Apprentice - By Walter Moers Page 0,58

one inside the cloche. This was not to say it was ugly, but Echo had never felt so frightened of any living creature.

The most terrifying thing about the Snow-White Widow was not what could be seen of her, but what couldn’t. Completely enshrouded in snow-white hair, her body resembled an elaborate wig composed of long, silky strands. It was as if a severed head had risen on the tips of its hair and was preparing to frighten the executioner to death with a horrific ballet. The Snow-White Widow seemed to be moving under water or in the atmosphere of an alien planet governed by different natural laws. Individual strands of hair had detached themselves and were waving to and fro - sluggishly, as if they existed in another age.

‘Yes, she’s genuinely dangerous,’ Ghoolion said in an awestruck whisper. He cautiously adjusted some valves and the whistling sound died away. ‘Her venom is ten thousand times more potent than that of the most poisonous scorpion, and she can cover short distances quicker than lightning. She sings in the dark and her singing, once heard, can never be forgotten. Never!’

The Snow-White Widow made a few darting movements under her cloche, faster than the eye could follow. It looked as if she had changed and regained her position by magic. Although Echo wanted to put as much distance as possible between himself and this horrific creature, he was incapable of moving a hair’s breadth. His muscles had seized up and his head was aching abominably.

Ghoolion had now gone right up to the cloche. ‘If she stings you,’ he said, ‘or rather, if the tips of her hair perforate you a hundred times within the space of a second, you’re done for. There’s no antidote to her venom because she changes it daily. As for its effects on your body, they’re unique in the annals of toxicology. Death at the hands of the Snow-White Widow is the loveliest and most terrible, most pleasurable and painful death of all. Your body deploys vast quantities of hormones to counteract the pain, sending you into an ecstasy of delight, a paroxysm of pain, the like of which no living creature should be compelled to endure. Your hair turns as snow-white as hers, and when your heart has finally torn itself to shreds in agony, your body disintegrates into a mound of white powder.’

The Snow-White Widow’s movements now became as ethereal and undulating as those of a jellyfish swimming in the depths of the sea. She sent her strands of hair snaking in all directions, froze them in mid-air for one fascinating moment and then, with provocative sluggishness, allowed them to sink once more. Echo found her dance so fascinating that he couldn’t tear his eyes away.

‘It’s said that the Snow-White Widow comes from the planet on which Death itself resides,’ Ghoolion whispered, ‘and that Death created her in order to discover what it was like to be afraid of something. That’s nonsense, of course. Death resides in all of us, nowhere else. One thing is certain, though: she’s the Queen of Fear.’

Echo almost disputed this. He was frightened, naturally, but he felt an increasing urge to go up to the cloche for a better look. He had never been so simultaneously entranced and repelled by any creature.

Advancing very cautiously, step by step, he stole towards the cloche like a cat stalking a bird.

The Snow-White Widow performed a little, almost coquettish, leap as if to attract his attention still further. For a moment she hovered above the floor of her cage, rotating on the spot as gracefully as a dying waterlily, then sank to the bottom.

‘The Snow-White Widow has been known to reveal her true face to some people,’ said Ghoolion, ‘but they were never the same afterwards. Many of them spent the rest of their lives sitting in a corner, babbling insanely to themselves, and they started screaming whenever they were approached by something with hair on it.’

‘She really is beautiful,’ Echo whispered. He was now standing so close to the cloche that his nose was almost touching the glass. His fear had almost left him. ‘Her movements are like - ’

All at once the Snow-White Widow’s hair gave a sudden jerk. Two strands parted like theatre curtains being peered through by an actor sneaking a look at the audience. They revealed an oval shape with a glaring eye in its midst. Echo knew it was an eye although it had neither iris nor pupil. He sensed