The Alchemaster's Apprentice - By Walter Moers Page 0,80

brains.

‘Have you ever wept, but at someone else’s misfortune, not your own?’ the squirrel prompted him.

Echo recalled the occasion when he’d pushed a blind mole into a stream. Except that he hadn’t wept, he’d laughed.

‘That was malicious glee!’ the squirrel told him disapprovingly. ‘That wasn’t pity, it was the opposite.’

‘I know,’ said Echo. ‘I can’t think why it popped into my mind.’

‘It’s a part of your cognitive process,’ the squirrel explained. ‘Your brain is sorting out suitable emotions. Go on looking. Go back as far as you can.’

A vague memory surfaced in Echo’s mind. An incident he’d almost forgotten, it was so long ago.

‘I do believe I’ve thought of something,’ he said. Tears sprang to his eyes at the mere recollection. ‘It’s a story I heard when I was little.’

‘Bravo!’ the squirrel cried triumphantly. ‘Congratulations, my friend. That was your second flash of inspiration. We’ll be seeing each other only once more.’

The golden glow faded and the squirrel turned translucent.

‘Hey!’ Echo called. ‘Don’t you want to hear the story?’

‘No!’ the squirrel called back. Its voice was very faint now. ‘Don’t tell it to me, tell it to Ghoolion.’

Ingotville

‘Listen, Master,’ said Echo, having devoured the delicious fillet of sole Ghoolion had given him for supper in the kitchen that night. ‘This time I’d like to entertain you for once. By telling you a story.’

Ghoolion proceeded to fill his pipe. ‘I didn’t know storytelling was your forte,’ he said with a grin.

‘That makes two of us,’ Echo replied, ‘but I can at least try.’

‘You’re full of surprises. What sort of story is it?’

‘A love story.’

‘Oh,’ said Ghoolion. He looked as if he’d swallowed a cockroach.

‘Don’t worry,’ Echo said quickly, ‘it’s a thoroughly tragic love story. The saddest story I’ve ever heard.’

Ghoolion’s face brightened. ‘Go on, then,’ he said, lighting his pipe. ‘I like tragic stories.’

Echo made himself comfortable on the kitchen table. He sat down on his haunches and supported himself on his forepaws.

‘I must begin by emphasising that this story is true in every detail. It’s about a very beautiful young woman.’

Ghoolion nodded, puffing away. Dense clouds of smoke ascended into the air.

‘Picture to yourself the most beautiful girl imaginable! She was so beautiful that there would be no point, in view of my meagre talent for storytelling, in even trying to put her beauty into words. That would far exceed my capabilities, so I’ll refrain from mentioning whether she was a blonde or a brunette or a redhead, or whether her hair was long or short or curly or smooth as silk. I shall also refrain from the usual comparisons where her complexion was concerned, for instance milk, velvet, satin, peaches and cream, honey or ivory. Instead, I shall leave it entirely up to your imagination to fill in this blank with your own ideal of feminine beauty.’

It could be inferred from Ghoolion’s expression and the faraway look in his eyes that he had already complied with Echo’s suggestion. His thin lips were set in one of those rare smiles that made him look almost likeable. To Echo, the fact that Ghoolion had any kind of ideal of feminine beauty was an encouraging sign.

‘Well,’ he went on, ‘at the time of my story, this beautiful girl lived in Ingotville.’

‘Ingotville?’ Ghoolion broke in. He was looking taken aback.

‘Yes, Ingotville. Anything wrong with that?’

‘Er … no, no, not at all.’ Ghoolion puffed at his pipe. ‘Go on,’ he commanded.

‘Well, Ingotville, as everyone knows, is the ugliest, dirtiest, most dangerous and unpopular city in the whole of Zamonia. It consists entirely of metal, of rusty iron and poisonous lead, tarnished copper and brass, nuts and bolts, machines and factories. The city itself is said to be a gigantic machine that’s very, very slowly propelling itself towards an unknown destination. Most of the Zamonian continent’s metalworking industry is based there and even the products it manufactures are ugly: weapons and barbed wire, garrottes and Iron Maidens, cages and handcuffs, suits of armour and executioners’ axes. Most of the inhabitants dwell in corrugated-iron huts black with coal dust and corroded by the acid rain that falls there almost incessantly. Those who can afford to - the gold barons and lead tycoons, arms dealers and arms manufacturers - live in steel fortresses, in constant fear of their starving and discontented underlings and workers. Ingotville is a city traversed by streams of acid and oil, and perpetually overhung by a pall of soot and storm clouds in which shafts of lightning flash and thunder rumbles. The grimy