The Alchemaster's Apprentice - By Walter Moers Page 0,88

been waiting for them at the end of their last excursion. Whatever it was that was giving off this stench, it had to be something frightful.

‘The fact is, there isn’t any “friend” in this story. I was wrong when I said I became him. I was him and have always been so. I am the young man who wooed your late mistress.’

Echo stared at the Alchemaster. He was dumbfounded.

‘But that’s impossible,’ he said. ‘He’s dead.’

‘So was I, to all intents and purposes,’ Ghoolion said gravely. He turned and walked on. ‘Let me take up the story at the point where I brought my beloved the money. I was already dead inside, but my outer shell had still to meet its end. I was a handsome youth, though I say it myself, but in reality I was just a dead man walking. Having promised my beloved to visit her soon, I went straight to the recruiting office and joined up. We marched off to battle in the Gloomberg Mountains the very next day. I’ll spare you the gory details. Suffice it to say, at the end of the battle I found myself lying on top of a mound of dead soldiers, some of whom I’d butchered myself. I’d been wounded scores of times with sword and axe, but I was still alive. An old alchemist who happened to have got mixed up in the fighting found me, gave me first aid and conveyed me back to his laboratory. Since he also had some knowledge of surgery, he patched me up in a makeshift fashion - makeshift being the operative word.’

Ghoolion laughed bitterly.

‘The first time I looked in a mirror, I realised I’d become a different person. No one would have recognised me. But my outward appearance was not all that had changed. My once handsome face had become this hideous mask and my scalp was bereft of its golden locks, but my heart had become this cold mechanism that ticks away inside me and my carefree disposition had given way to the restlessness that dominates me today.’

Echo felt almost moved by Ghoolion’s astonishing confession, but the vile stench had become so strong that it left no room for any emotion save disgust.

Ghoolion had halted again. They were standing outside some big double doors whose massive hinges were adorned with gold leaf. Echo could tell that the source of the terrible smell must lie beyond them.

‘Not a day went by’, Ghoolion whispered, ‘that I didn’t think of my beloved. I cherished the hope that she would some day appear at the castle gates. Under the delusion that I must be prepared for that day, I cooked her a banquet whenever it overcame me.’

He flung the doors wide.

The smell that came wafting towards them was so strong, so throat-catching, that tears sprang to Echo’s eyes. He swung round and vomited on the spot.

But Ghoolion strode into the room undaunted. It had no windows and was lit by a few Anguish Candles. The only pieces of furniture were a long banqueting table and two chairs, one at either end.

Having voided the contents of his stomach, Echo could now venture a look. Although the stench was still indescribable, his nausea had subsided. He wiped the tears from his eyes and followed Ghoolion, though only as far as the threshold. That was sufficient for him to take in the full horror of what lay inside.

The table was piled high with food, or rather, with what remained of it. In fact, the table’s existence could only be guessed at beneath a revolting welter of rotting meat and fish, stale bread, shrivelled fruit, dusty plates and glasses, dishes and tureens, knives, forks and spoons.

‘There it is!’ cried Ghoolion. ‘My beloved’s banqueting table!’ It was impossible to tell from his expression what was going on inside him at that moment: whether he was ruled by reason or insanity.

Echo saw meat and fish bones picked clean; an enormous ham - still recognisable by its shape - with maggots crawling out of it; a whole desiccated boar’s head, the orange in its mouth blue with mould; semi-mummified poultry; raisins that had once been grapes; shellfish and fish heads in every stage of putrefaction. Insects and worms were swarming everywhere. Clouds of fruit flies hovered above these bizarre ruins of the culinary art and a fat spider lurked in a veal calf’s eye socket, ready to catch them if they landed. Rats were gnawing at an old round of cheese and a