The City of Dreaming Books (60 page)

‘That wasn’t the intention. You were to-’

‘No, no, it’s a fantastic idea! After all, I’d have to earn my keep. I could do a bit of scribbling for the spectators on demand, like those poor devils in the Graveyard of Forgotten Writers. Or I could pull frightful faces for the children. We’ll hang up a sign outside: “
Visit the paper monster! See the terrible Homuncolossus being fed!
” I could set fire to myself, then you could put me out. We’d naturally have to give Pfistomel Smyke a piece of the action. He created me, after all.’

The conversation was taking an alarming turn. Homuncolossus put the wine bottle to his paper lips and drained it in one, then rose to his feet. The Animatomes fled in all directions as if warned by instinct of what was to come.

‘A
compound
?’ Homuncolossus bellowed. He gave the table such a thump with his fist, the top cracked like crazy paving.

Then he hurled the wine bottle into a dark corner, smashing it. ‘I’m the master of Shadowhall!’ he yelled. ‘I rule the whole labyrinth! The catacombs of Bookholm are under my control! I can go wherever I please in my immense domain! I’m free! Free to live and to kill! Freer than any other living creature!’

Homuncolossus vaulted across the table and landed beside me. I was scared stiff - I prepared to get up and make a run for it, but he was too close. Seizing me by the cloak, he hauled me to my feet. Again I smelt his mildew-laden breath and this time I also detected a glint in his dark eye sockets. I had never seen him so angry.

‘I’m a king!’ he snarled. ‘A king with a castle of my own, and you propose to put me in a
zoo
?!’

‘It was just a suggestion,’ I mumbled. ‘I only wanted to help.’

Homuncolossus was breathing heavily. ‘Listen, there’s something we must straighten out once and for all.’ His voice was quieter now but no less menacing. ‘We must lay our cards on the table and settle matters. You know it and I know it.’

What
did I know? What ‘matters’ did he mean? What was going on in his wine-fuddled head? I hadn’t the first idea what he was talking about. I only knew that I was cursing myself for being a blabbermouth. One incautious word would be enough to turn him into a wild, unpredictable beast.

Homuncolossus reached inside my cloak. I felt sure he was about to rip out my heart, but he merely removed the manuscript and held it under my nose.

‘You want to know how to write like this,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Am I right?’

I nodded.

‘You want to know how to acquire the Orm?’

I still didn’t believe in the Orm, but I nodded again.

‘Most of all, you want to know how to become the greatest writer in Zamonia?’

I nodded even harder.

‘Say them, then! Say the magic words!’

I was tongue-tied.

‘Say them this minute,’ he roared, ‘or I’ll tear you to shreds even smaller than the ones I’m composed of.’

‘Teach me!’ I whispered.

‘What? Louder! I can’t hear you!’

‘Teach . . . me . . . to . . . write!’ I shouted at the top of my voice. ‘Please, I beg of you! Teach me to write the way you can!’

Homuncolossus let go of me.

‘At last,’ he said, smiling for the very first time. ‘I thought you’d never ask.’

T
hat was the whole secret, dear readers: Homuncolossus’s immense self-esteem. That was why he had lured me into his castle, to pass on the secrets of his craft. That had been his aim ever since eavesdropping on my conversation with Hunk Hoggno and learning that I was Dancelot’s authorial godson. Only his grotesque vanity had prevented him from simply offering to help me. I had to be tested. I had to suffer. I had to beg and implore him to accept me as his pupil.

‘Show me your paws!’ he commanded.

He had conducted me to the Animatomes’ library, sat me down on the chair and stationed himself in front of me. The Animatomes were thronging the shelves like the audience in a rather bizarre theatre about to present a play entitled
Optimus Yarnspinner’s first lesson in writing from Homuncolossus of Shadowhall.
No inhabitant of the castle wanted to miss this première, it seemed. They kept changing places and clambering over each other, squeaking with excitement. A few were fluttering in the air.

Obediently, I showed Homuncolossus my paws. He took hold of them and gazed at the palms as if he could read the future in them.

‘Which paw do you write with?’ he asked.

‘The right.’

‘And you still haven’t produced anything you consider worth publishing?’

‘Not really.’

‘Then you’re writing with the wrong paw.’

‘What?’

‘You’ve been misrouting the flow of poetic inspiration from your brain. Your right paw isn’t your writing paw. You must write with the left.’

‘But I can’t. I learnt to write with my right paw.’

‘Then you must start again from scratch.’

‘Do I really have to?’

‘If you don’t write with the correct paw you’ll never amount to anything. It’s like writing with your feet.’

I sighed. Great! I had to learn to write before I could learn to write.

Homuncolossus released my paws and proceeded to circle the table.

‘Anyone can write,’ he said. ‘Some people can write a bit better than others; they’re called authors. Then there are some who can write better than authors; they’re called artists. Finally, there are some artists who can write better than other artists. No name has yet been devised for them. They’re the ones who have attained the Orm.’

Oh no, not the Orm again, per
lease
! Because I still hadn’t attained it, the Orm pursued me with infinite tenacity. It ran me to earth in the remotest places, even miles below ground in the Animatomes’ library.

‘The creative density of the Orm is immeasurable. It’s a source of inspiration that never runs dry - as long as you know how to get there.’ Homuncolossus was speaking of the Orm as if it were a place he regularly frequented as a matter of course.

‘But, even if you’re fortunate enough to attain the Orm,’ he went on, ‘you’ll be a stranger there unless you’ve mastered the Alphabet of the Stars.’

‘The Alphabet of the Stars? Is that a script?’

‘Yes and no. It’s an alphabet, but it’s also a rhythm. A form of music. An emotion.’

‘Can’t you be a bit vaguer?’ I sighed. ‘Are you sure it isn’t a plum pudding as well?’

Homuncolossus ignored this gibe.

‘Only a handful of true artists attain the Orm. That’s a great privilege in itself, but very few of them know the Alphabet of the Stars. They’re the élite. Master it, and you can, if you’ve attained the Orm, communicate there with all the artistic forces in the universe. You can learn things whose existence you would never have suspected in your wildest dreams.’

‘This Alphabet of the Stars - you yourself have mastered it, of course?’

‘Of course.’

Homuncolossus stared at me as if I were an imbecile. How could I have doubted it, even for a moment?

‘Will you teach me it?’ I asked boldly.

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because it isn’t transmissible. I can’t teach you how to attain the Orm, either. Either you’ll manage it some day or you won’t. Many do so once but never again. Some attain it repeatedly, but they don’t know the Alphabet of the Stars. Others attain the Orm with ease and communicate there by means of the Alphabet.’

‘For instance?’

Homuncolossus thought for a moment.

‘Hm . . . Aleisha Wimpersleake attained the Orm. Many times, in fact, but if he hadn’t known the Alphabet of the Stars as well he might have remained a humble thespian all his life.’ Homuncolossus chuckled.

I couldn’t help grinning at the memory of Al declaiming blank verse.

‘Then there’s Inka Almira Rierre. He was a regular visitor to the Orm, and no one could have written a poem like ‘Comet Wine’ unless he’d memorised the Alphabet of the Stars.’

Homuncolossus kneaded his brow.

‘Perla la Gadeon too, of course! He bathed daily in the Orm, and he was born with the Alphabet in his blood. He was so talented, he died of it.’

‘And how did
you
learn it?’ I asked.

He stared at the ceiling.

‘It was when I was a little child - I didn’t even know the Zamonian alphabet,’ he said quietly. ‘I could neither read nor write nor speak. One night when I was lying in my cradle, gazing up in wonder at the cloudless sky, I suddenly saw some thin threads of light appear among the stars and link them up into wonderful shapes. One symbol after another appeared until the whole sky was covered with them. I laughed and gurgled, being only a baby, because the symbols shimmered so beautifully and made such glorious music. That was the first and last time I saw the Alphabet of the Stars, but I never forgot it.’

Homuncolossus was being serious, it seemed - so serious that my scepticism wavered a little. Perhaps I could coax him out on to thin ice with a question or two.

‘So you believe that - what did you call them? - “artistic forces” exist on other planets? Are you talking about extraterrestrial writers?’

‘I don’t just believe so, I know so.’

‘Yes, of course, you always
know
everything.’

‘Writers exist on billions of planets. You can’t imagine what they look like. I know of one who lives on a planet not
so
far removed from our own solar system. A microscopically small fish, he lives at the bottom of a dark sea, beside the crater of a continuously erupting submarine volcano, and composes magmatic poems of breathtaking beauty.’

‘How does he write them down?’

Homuncolossus gave me a pitying look.

‘You won’t believe it, but there are a few methods of recording ideas in this universe other than scratching them on paper with a goose quill.’

‘You don’t say.’

‘I know of a living sandstorm on Mars that engraves its ideas on stone while racing across the surface of the planet. The whole of Mars is covered with sandstone literature.’

I grinned and Homuncolossus grinned back.

‘I realise you don’t believe a word I say,’ he said. ‘I can only hope for your sake that the Orm sets you right some day, or you’ll remain a pathetic prisoner of your own limited imagination. You’ll probably wind up as a greetings-card poet employed by some Bookholmian printer.’

The Animatomes rustled their pages with a sound like applause. Was I imagining it, or did I really detect a malicious undertone in their chorus of squeaks? Surely not - or so I hoped.

‘But that’s enough theory,’ said Homuncolossus. ‘Let’s get down to some practice. You’re going to spend the night in this room.’

‘In here with the Animatomes? Why?’

‘As a punishment. You were going to eat one of them.’

‘But I was almost dying of hunger and thirst! It was your fault for leaving me alone.’

‘There’s no excuse for eating my loyal subjects, even in your imagination! You’re going to learn to live in peace with them. You’re to remain here. I’ll bring you some paper and writing things, then you can start to practise writing with your left paw.’

I groaned. ‘But what shall I write about?’

‘That’s quite immaterial,’ said Homuncolossus. ‘It’ll be unreadable in any case.’