The City of Dreaming Books (49 page)

S
ulphur and phosphorus fumes drifted about me as I made my way through the next few caves, obediently following the snippets of paper I never failed to find lying on the ground every few yards. The unpleasant smells came from volcanic springs. Pools of magma and boiling water were bubbling on all sides, but more violently than the contents of the modest crater the Booklings called their Devil’s Kitchen. These pools seethed and hissed, and I had to take care where I trod because even the water in an innocuous-looking puddle could be unbearably hot.

The temperature and humidity had risen considerably, and the heat was comparable to that prevailing in the vicinity of a smelting furnace. It had grown appreciably lighter thanks to the golden-yellow glow of the molten lava, which lit the lofty caverns from floor to vaulted roof. I inferred from the volcanic conditions that I had penetrated even deeper into the catacombs. I couldn’t be absolutely sure of this, however, because my knowledge of geology was too limited.

The further I progressed through these caves the less natural they seemed. The walls and floors looked as if they had been artificially buffed and polished, and I soon began to notice ornamental designs and symbols that could only have been handmade. Someone equipped with tools had carved, engraved or milled patterns into the rock, but none of them reminded me of any well-known civilisation or art form. Nowhere could I discern a familiar shape. These were abstract symbols, and even they looked alien because they did not embody conventional geometrical shapes and dispensed entirely with squares, circles, triangles and the like.

I was now making my way through caves of which every square inch was occupied by these symbols. Covering the floor, walls, roofs, stalagmites and boulders, many of them had been carefully painted in shades of red, yellow and blue. Seen from a distance they made a strangely, beautifully ornamental impression. If I stared at these coloured patterns for any length of time they seemed to move, to revolve and dance around. They rose and fell like the ribcage of some huge, sleeping beast, together with the walls on which they were inscribed.

Could the walls be my own cerebral cortex? Was my demented psyche roaming among them and were the symbols my own insane ideas, which I myself was past deciphering?

I couldn’t help rubbing my eyes again and again. This, I thought, was what it must be like to discover the remains of an alien civilisation on some distant planet. I pictured the former inhabitants of these caverns as a race of intelligent giant ants able to climb all over the walls and roofs and carve or etch their symbols into the rock with endogenous tools and acids. There seemed no other explanation for how they had managed to reach so many inaccessible places.

The caves became steadily wider and higher, and I felt smaller and more insignificant at every step. Nature alone had never had that effect on me - I had never been overly impressed by lofty mountains or broad expanses of desert. It was artistry on such a vast scale that induced this feeling of humility in me. Was this the manifestation of a very early literature? Of writing that was still ignorant of paper or printing? Were these not ornaments at all but a form of script? If so, I might be making my way through a very primitive type of book, a colossal subterranean tome in which each cave represented a chapter.

I ascended a flight of steps hewn out of the rock. Completely covered with symbols, they led to a lofty, richly decorated portal. I was suddenly overcome by a notion that the purpose of all these symbols was merely to prepare me for another, even greater work of art - that they were an immense salutation carved in stone, or possibly a warning designed to attune me to what awaited me beyond the portal. I trembled, almost riven with suspense. Was it really wise to go on? My knees were knocking, my body was streaming with sweat. The symbols danced around me like snowflakes in a blizzard. They might be calling to me to turn back at once, for all I knew, but I didn’t understand their language.

And then, after another three or four steps, the symbols disappeared from view. I was through the gateway and standing on the threshold of the next cave - in another world. Although it certainly wasn’t the biggest cave I had seen so far - the Rusty Gnomes’ railroad station was somewhat bigger - it contained what had to be the most astonishing edifice in the catacombs. While searching for words to describe it, I was reminded of Colophonius Regenschein’s lines of verse:

A long, winding flight of steps led some way down into the cave, then up in a series of serpentine bends until it reached the building that seemed to jut from the opposite rock face like the bow of an enormous ship. A ship, whether of the future or dating from very ancient times, it might have been built by giants who had sailed the seven seas in it before sinking to the bottom of the Zamonian Ocean.

Its windows stare like sightless eyes . . .
Shadowhall Castle had a multitude of windows and doorways of various sizes, all of which had been bricked up except for one big open portal situated at its central point and approached by the winding flight of steps. At the foot of the castle, on either side of the steps, molten lava bubbling in hundreds of little craters bathed the building in a golden glow. The acrid vapours rising into the superheated atmosphere almost took my breath away. From time to time there was an audible gurgle followed by a dull plop, and a thin jet of liquefied rock soared into the air in front of the castle. It shot upwards like a rocket, then fell back in a shower of incandescent droplets.

There was another remarkable feature, to my eyes perhaps the most remarkable of all: on every fourth or fifth step lay a scrap of paper. The trail that had been laid for me was intended to lure me straight into Shadowhall Castle.

At this stage, dear readers, I naturally had no idea that this really was Shadowhall Castle, nor did I know what awaited me within its walls. I knew only that, if this was a trap, it was the biggest and most impressive trap the catacombs of Bookholm had to offer. Feeling duly flattered, I set off up the steps to the castle.

A
s I drew near Shadowhall Castle I noticed to my great surprise that it was a literary structure. What I had taken from a distance to be bricks were really close-knit layers of books. Having reached the top of the steps and, thus, the entrance to the castle, I was at last able to examine them at close quarters.

With walls of books piled high . . .
I now understood this line from Regenschein’s poem as well. Yes, the books were fossilised and seemed to have been laid without mortar, but it was hard to tell whether they were fossilised when used as bricks or had become so subsequently. I couldn’t help thinking of Pfistomel Smyke’s house and its ingenious dry-stone building technique. I was also reminded of my giant ant theory. I could readily imagine the creatures fetching books from the surrounding labyrinth, then gluing them together with an endogenous secretion at the behest of their monstrous queen, who had flown here from some distant planet and was now waiting for me inside, ready to join me in breeding a super-race of dinosaurs and giant ants that would . . .

My imagination had run away with me, a sign of extreme tension. I had reached the threshold of the castle; now I would have to decide whether to enter it or beat a retreat. I could still turn back.

I ran my eyes over the façade once more. Was this really an entire castle deeply embedded in the rock, or was it just a dummy, a gigantic half-relief? I couldn’t make up my mind whether it was forbidding or inviting. It was certainly fascinating.

Its windows stare like sightless eyes, and through them phantoms fly . . .
I didn’t find those lines particularly inviting, any more than
of leather and of paper built
or
worm-eaten through and through.
Whatever they were meant to convey, they didn’t conjure up visions of an agreeable stay at a luxury hotel.

There are several Zamonian horror stories in which the hero finds himself in a similar situation - one that makes you feel like shouting, ‘No, don’t! For heaven’s sake don’t go in there, you fool! It’s a trap!’

But then you lower the book and sit back. ‘Well, why not?’ you tell yourself. ‘Let him go in! Ten to one there’s a gigantic, hundred-legged spider lurking inside, poised to spin a cocoon around him or something. It’s bound to be entertaining. He’s the hero of a Zamonian horror story, after all. He’s got to be able to take it.’

And so, being the hero of a Zamonian horror story, he ignores all the dictates of common sense and does go inside, to be promptly imprisoned in a cocoon by a gigantic hundred-legged spider - or something of the kind.

Not me, though!
I
wouldn’t go inside. Once bitten twice shy: I’d been inured to traps by bitter experience. I wasn’t some asinine hero who risks his neck to satisfy the vulgar requirements of a lowbrow readership. No, I wouldn’t go
right
inside, I would only go
a little way
inside. Where was the harm in that, after all? Just a couple of steps and a quick peek with one eye on the doorway. I would gain an idea of the place and turn back at once if anything looked fishy.

The fact was, dear readers, I simply couldn’t bring myself to leave without taking a look inside Shadowhall Castle. Curiosity is the most powerful incentive in the world. Why? Because it’s capable of overcoming the two most powerful
dis
incentives in the world: common sense and fear. Curiosity accounts for why children hold their hands over candle flames, why soldiers go to war or scientists venture into the Cogitating Quicksand of Nairland. Curiosity is the reason why all the heroes of Zamonian horror stories ‘go inside’ sooner or later.

So I went inside - but only a little way inside. Therein lay the small but important difference between me and the reckless heroes of Zamonian horror stories: I went inside but promptly came to a halt and looked around with a mixture of relief and disappointment.

No gigantic hundred-legged spider. No Shadow King. No phantoms. No creatures of leather or paper. Just a relatively modest entrance hall, a circular chamber with a low, domed ceiling softly illuminated by the glow of the molten lava coming through the open doorway. Like the outer walls, the entrance hall was built of fossilised books. Twelve passages led off it, but that was all. No furniture or anything of that kind.

So why had I made such a fuss about taking a look at what was probably the most unspectacular part of what was probably the most spectacular building in the catacombs? There had to be more to the castle than this.

Why not venture a little further? Along one of those passages, perhaps? It wouldn’t be risky provided I could still see the glow of the lava. Even the faintest reflection of it would guide me back to the exit. I would keep going until the light ran out.

So I set off down one of the twelve passages, which was long and dark and as bare as the entrance hall. Another passage branched off it after only twenty paces, as far as I could see in the steadily dwindling light. Why not take a quick look down that one and then turn back? The interior of this building might contain nothing spectacular whatsoever.

When I reached the intersection I saw that the next passage was dimly illuminated by a candle in an iron candlestick, which was standing on top of a book on the ground. There was nothing else in the passage. Nothing
else
? Candles and books were triumphs of art and technology, signs of civilisation! A
burning
candle, what was more! Someone must have lit it only a short time before!

My heart leapt. Yes, someone must be here - some animate creature must live here, whether good or evil it remained to be seen. I was well on the way to being lured ever deeper into Shadowhall Castle, propelled by my own curiosity like a puppet on a string. However, those two greatest disincentives in the world, common sense and fear, were still potent enough to prompt me to consider my future course of action.

Somebody lived there, that was enough to be going on with. I decided to go back outside and work out a plan. Perhaps I should lay a trail, pluck a thread from my cloak and attach it to the doorpost - something like that. Think first, I told myself! Look before you leap!

So I retraced my steps. But, when I came to the place where the passage debouched into the entrance hall, the doorway had disappeared! There was nothing there, just bare wall. I was thunderstruck. Was this really the place? If not, how could I have gone astray in such a short distance? The candle would help me to find the exit, so I went back to fetch it. I also wanted to take a look at the book, which might provide some helpful clue. But the intersection had also disappeared, like the whole of the passage with the candle in it! This was a sheer impossibility. Then I had an idea born of desperation: unlikely as it seemed, perhaps somebody was cutting me off by erecting walls at lightning speed. So I returned once more to the spot where the door to the entrance hall had been. If the wall was newly built I might be able to knock it down.