The City of Dreaming Books (55 page)

‘Smyke came over to the aquarium. He grinned, tapped the glass with his numerous knuckles and spoke to my friend, who could hear his voice just as someone buried alive might hear the voices of mourners round the grave through his coffin and the layers of earth on top of it.

‘ “You’re awake at last,” said Smyke. “You slept so well, so soundly and for so long. Long enough for me to get everything ready for the grand transubstantiation. Yes, my human friend, I’m going to transform you. Then you won’t be human any more, oh no! You’ll be a superior being, understand?” He tapped the glass again. “I’m going to help you to acquire a new body, one that will suit your authorial brain far better. What’s more, I’m going to help you to acquire a new existence. No need to thank me. It’ll be a pleasure.”

‘My friend was panic-stricken. The fluid became steadily warmer, then hot - unbearably hot. Big bubbles rose slowly, sluggishly before his eyes and it dawned on him that the fluid was beginning to seethe. He was being boiled alive.

‘Smyke gave another tap on the glass. “Now you know how a lobster feels,” he called. “Chefs claim a lobster feels nothing, but I think that’s a lie. I can’t say I envy you your unique experience.”

‘My friend lapsed into merciful unconsciousness. He dreamt that Bookholm was being consumed by a vast conflagration. Then he perceived that he himself was the fire-raiser - that he was striding through the city like a human torch, setting house after house ablaze. In his dream he was the Darkman of Bookholm, whom legend credits with having caused the city’s first great fire.

‘Then he came to again. Smyke seemed to be standing right in front of him, because all he could see was the Shark Grub’s face. But he still couldn’t move a muscle, even now. To his astonishment, Smyke was cupping his head in two of his little hands, almost as if he were about to kiss him. My friend was relieved to find that the fluid had disappeared and that he was once more surrounded by air.

‘“Oh dear,” said Smyke, sounding genuinely regretful, “you’ve woken up at an inopportune moment. Please don’t think I’ve done this to you on purpose. It’s just a stupid mischance, but the anaesthetic in your brain can be capricious. Well, now that this has happened I’m going to show you a unique sight - one that is seldom granted to any living creature.”

‘Smyke turned my friend’s head in another direction. He could now see a laboratory table with a silver bowl on it. Floating in the bowl, which was filled with milky liquid, was a human arm.

‘ “Yes,” said Smyke, “that’s
your
arm. The one you write with!”

‘Then he turned my friend’s head in another direction. Standing on a pedestal was a tall, thin jar of some clear fluid, and immersed in it was a neatly severed leg.

‘ “And that’s one of your legs,” said Smyke. “The left one, I think.” He laughed.

‘Again he altered the direction of my friend’s gaze. Lying on a dissecting table was a torso from which the arms, legs and head had been removed. The raw stumps had been discreetly draped with muslin cloths.

‘ “That’s your torso. I’m in the process of disinfecting the incisions with an alchemical solution. Yes, you really have woken up at an awkward moment. We’re just at the dissection phase. It’s essential to aesthymise the separate body parts carefully. But don’t worry, I shall sew them together again in the correct order. I’m quite skilled with a needle.”

‘A figure came into view beyond the torso. It was Claudio Harpstick, the literary agent, holding a saw and wearing a white apron liberally bespattered with blood. He gave my friend an amiable smile and brandished the saw, which was also smeared with blood.

‘That was when my friend grasped the truth at last. This was no nightmare. He really was in Smyke’s laboratory, but he wasn’t standing in front of him, as he’d thought, because his body was scattered around the laboratory in several pieces. Smyke was holding up his severed head and turning it to and fro.

‘And then Smyke tossed the head into the air like a ball. For one ghastly moment my friend had an aerial view of the whole laboratory complete with its mysterious appliances, glass vessels and powerful alchemical batteries. He caught another glimpse of his separate body parts and saw Harpstick and the Shark Grub staring up at him in amusement. Then gravity reasserted itself and his head fell back into Smyke’s hands.

‘ “The next time you wake up,” said Smyke, “you’ll be a different person.”

‘My friend relapsed into profound unconsciousness.

‘The next time he awoke he really was standing upright, because he could feel his body beneath him and was all too conscious of the pain that racked his limbs. Looking down at himself, he discovered that he was firmly secured to a vertical wooden board. His entire body was swathed in sheets of ancient paper covered with unfamiliar symbols. He tried to free himself but was utterly immobilised by iron clamps round his wrists and ankles, neck and thighs. He was still in the laboratory. Then Pfistomel Smyke and Claudio Harpstick swam into his field of vision.

‘ “Ah, he’s awake again,” Smyke exclaimed delightedly. “Look, Claudio!”

‘ “Did you fasten those clamps securely?” Harpstick asked in an anxious tone.

‘ “See how big he is,” said Smyke. “A regular colossus!”

‘They had come right up to my friend, and he wondered why he was looking down at them. He seemed to have grown overnight.

‘ “You must be wondering about all that paper,” Smyke went on. “You probably think it’s part of some silly Bookemistic ritual and will soon be removed, but it isn’t and it won’t. Far from it!” ’

Something about the Shadow King’s tone rang an alarm bell in my head, dear readers. I had been spellbound by his vivid account of this exciting horror story, but now his narrative flow dried up. He seemed to be in the grip of some powerful emotion, and the frightening quality in his voice was gaining the upper hand.

‘ “No, far from it!” cried the Shadow King, still in the role of Smyke. “That integument of yours is far more than a sheet of Bookemistic wrapping paper. It’s your new skin! I made you a promise and I’ve kept it: I’ve transformed you into a new creature!” ’

I jumped to my feet in a single movement, for the Shadow King had suddenly begun to rise from his throne. Leaning on the arms, he slowly heaved himself erect. His voice became as thunderous and awe-inspiring as the roar of a wounded lion.

‘And Pfistomel Smyke said to my friend, “You used to be a human being and now you’re a monster! You used to be small and now you’re a giant. I am your creator and you are my creation. ‘Homunculus’ is the alchemists’ name for the little manikins they try to create.
You
I shall call . . .
Homuncolossus
!” ’

As he uttered that name, dear readers, the Shadow King emerged into the candlelight and I saw his true stature for the first time. A shrill cry escaped my lips and I retreated several steps like the Animatomes, which recoiled at the horrific sight.

The creature confronting me was swathed from head to foot in paper. All that still recalled a human being was the shape of its body. It had arms, legs, a torso, a head - even a face. Everything was there, but made up of countless layers of ancient, yellowing paper - thousands of snippets covered with the same strange runes that had adorned the paper trail I’d followed through the catacombs. What I had mistaken in the gloom for the points of a crown were the jagged scraps of paper from which the creature had been fabricated. If a stone or bronze statue had suddenly sprung to life, it could not have terrified me more than this gigantic artificial being made of paper, which was slowly advancing on me.

‘No,’ said the Shadow King, and his tone became more menacing with every word he uttered and every step he took, ‘I have ceased to be human. No longer am I the writer you have been seeking all this time. I used to be him. Now I am something new and different - something far greater. I am a monster. A murderer. A hunter. I am the king of Shadowhall Castle. I am . . . Homuncolossus!’

I
stood there without moving and got ready to die. There was no point in trying to escape from such a monster, it would only have prolonged my agony to no avail. Homuncolossus had lured me into his murky kingdom with revenge in mind: I was to die on behalf of all who had done him an injustice. He bore down on me with the calm self-assurance of a mighty predator that knows how futile it would be for its quarry to run away. His face had a certain bizarre beauty, even if it was the mask of a monster. His nose, lips and ears were composed of skilfully assembled layers of paper, and I could well imagine how patiently and lovingly Pfistomel Smyke had modelled them with his abundance of little hands. Even Homuncolossus’s teeth consisted of jagged pieces of parchment, possibly stiffened with resin, judging by the way their golden tips glinted in the candlelight. Most terrible of all, however, were his eyes: just two black cavities where the eyeballs should have been.

I now saw, too, that he did not consist entirely of paper. His shoulder joints, elbows, knees, hips and neck were coated with a brownish, elastic substance resembling leather. Of course! It was leather that held the pages of a book together, so it was only natural that the same should apply to this creature. Being a stickler for quality, Smyke was bound to have used the finest bookbinder’s leather.

When he was only an arm’s length from me, Homuncolossus bent down. He was now so close that his breath, which was laden with a strangely agreeable smell of old books, fanned my cheeks.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘how about it? Do you want to hear the rest of my story?’

I nodded, although I thought he was merely indulging in a last, sinister jest before slitting my throat with his paper talons.

But all he said was ‘Very well. You’re doubtless wondering about this paper body of mine. Why am I a prisoner down here, although a big, strong creature like me need fear no one? Why don’t I simply go up and rip Smyke’s heart out of his fat body? If he thought so highly of my literary ability, why did he banish me to the catacombs?’

I responded to each of his questions with a nod. The power of speech seemed to have deserted me permanently. If I had tried to speak at that moment, all that would have emerged was a croak.

The Shadow King resumed his seat. The Animatomes, seeing that their lord and master had regained his composure, sidled a little closer to the throne.

‘Pfistomel Smyke explained everything to me while I was still immobilised in his laboratory,’ Homuncolossus went on. ‘First, the business of the paper. He came right up to me and ran his many hands over the yellowing scraps of paper that covered me.’

‘ “Do you know what sort of paper this is?” he asked. “It’s a secret, very ancient Bookemistic paper. The Bookemists who lived and worked beneath Bookholm many centuries ago were always terrified that their arcane knowledge, their precious notes and records, might be stolen and misused by scientists from the world above. So they devised a secret script so cunning and sophisticated that no one has deciphered it to this day - even I have failed to crack it. But that wasn’t enough for the over-anxious Bookemists, oh no! They invented a kind of paper so sensitive to light that it would instantly burst into flames if exposed to a single sunbeam - indeed, even to a single moonbeam. A paper that could exist only in the darkness of the catacombs.” Smyke removed his hands from my body and grinned at me.

‘ “This secret paper bearing the secret cipher is your new skin,” he said. “We have steeped it in various animistic and Bookemistic oils and essences and glued it to your flesh with a unique adhesive that resists any form of solvent. If you tried to tear off your new skin, you would rip yourself to shreds.” Smyke held up numerous fingers in an admonitory way.

‘ “It was far from easy to get hold of this rarest of all papers,” he went on, “but thanks to my manifold connections I finally managed to do so. You’ve no idea how valuable that makes you. We used vast quantities of the said paper, tore up hundreds of Bookemistic notebooks and carefully glued them to your body parts, layer upon layer, before reconstructing you. That’s why you’re so big: a third of you now consists of paper. Discounting its combustible nature, this material is extremely tough and durable. The Bookemists manufactured it to preserve their notes for thousands of years. But, as I said, a single sunbeam or moonbeam would suffice to envelop you in flames from head to foot. As an exile in the dark depths of the catacombs you will be able to live for a very, very long time. On the surface of Bookholm you would burn to death within seconds.”