The Alchemaster's Apprentice (14 page)

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Authors: Walter Moers

BOOK: The Alchemaster's Apprentice
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He looked around, picked up something lying on the table in front of him and held it under Echo’s nose. It was a slice of stale bread - a form of food typical of the Alchemaster’s own preferred diet.
‘A slice of bread,’ he said. ‘You would regard it as one big slice, wouldn’t you?’
Echo thought for a moment, then nodded. ‘Of course,’ he said.
Ghoolion clenched his fist and the brittle bread disintegrated.
‘But it’s really a lot of little fragments.’ He opened his fingers, allowing the crumbs to fall on to the table, then picked one up and held it between thumb and forefinger.
‘And this crumb here - you’d describe it as a single crumb, wouldn’t you?’
Echo nodded again, rather more hesitantly this time.
Ghoolion ground the crumb to dust between his fingers.
‘But it, too, consists of many smaller particles. It’s the same with all physical matter. All the things you see here - workbenches, chairs, microscopes, books, glass vessels, the whole laboratory, even you and I - are made up of tiny components held together in a wondrous manner. That’s why we alchemists concentrate our research on the very smallest objects, because we believe that their microcosmic structure contains a latent but immense store of energy.’
‘How can something small contain an immense store of energy?’ Echo demanded. ‘Isn’t that a contradiction in terms?’
The Alchemaster seemed to be debating whether to go back to work or devote himself to the gaps in Echo’s education.
‘Listen,’ he said at length, ‘and I’ll tell you a story. It’s about the Miniforest and it’s also to do with alchemy. Interested?’
Echo nodded.
‘Every budding alchemist has to learn this story by heart. He won’t gain his diploma unless he can recite it perfectly. I can still say it word for word, even today.’
‘It must be an important story, then,’ said Echo.
‘It is. It takes place in the Miniforest, so I hope you won’t expect it to deal with grand emotions or events on an epic scale, let alone with giants. It’s the smallest story in the whole of Zamonia. Can you come to terms with that?’
‘No problem,’ said Echo. ‘I like small things.’
‘You see? One immediately feels more comfortable when small things are involved, doesn’t one? More comfortable and free from the shadows cast by monstrous events to come. The things that happen in cramped but clearly visible surroundings are so small and uncommodious that even a Rootkin can deal with them. Isn’t that nice and reassuring?’
‘Yes,’ said Echo.
‘Rootkins are so small that they can’t even be termed dwarfs. They belong to the Dwurf family, which embraces all life forms smaller than a chestnut: Piplings, Nutkins, Antlets, Skwirts and so on. But Rootkins are the smallest of the lot. They’re only knee-high to a Skwirt and you know how small a Skwirt is.’
‘No,’ said Echo, ‘I don’t.’
‘Well, a Nutkin is smaller than a Pipling but bigger than an Antlet, and a Skwirt is half the size of the latter. Stand all three on top of each other and they would be as tall in relation to a dwarf as a chicken is to an elephant.’
‘I see,’ said Echo.
‘Now that I’ve explained their relative sizes, perhaps I can get on with the story. Well, all Rootkins are alike. Equally big or equally small, equally kind, equally courageous, equally timid, equally this, equally that. And because they’re all so alike, they need no names. They sprout from the floor of the Miniforest in springtime, precisely a dozen of them every year, and they’re fairly long-lived unless they fall victim to an accident. Their job is to tend the Miniforest. They scarify the soil by raking it, lop off dead branches and milk greenflies - that sort of thing.’
Ghoolion clasped his hands together and cracked his knuckles with a grisly sound like twigs snapping, a habit Echo profoundly disliked.
‘Our story begins’, he went on, ‘when a Rootkin who was busy weeding a clearing - a very small clearing far from the rest of his kind - came upon something protruding from the forest floor. It was a vessel with a cork in it.
‘The Rootkin’s curiosity was aroused, so he dug up the vessel and discovered it to be an earthenware bottle. Being smaller than a Rootkin, the bottle could justifiably be called a small one, but since it almost came up to the Rootkin’s shoulder, he thought: “My, what a big bottle! Looks like an antique or something - it’s very old, anyway. If there’s some kind of drink inside it, it’s bound to taste awful.”
‘Gingerly, the Rootkin removed the cork and sniffed the neck of the bottle. As he did so, a cloud of evil-smelling fumes emerged from it. He thought at first that the drink inside had gone bad and was escaping in the form of a gas, but the cloud grew bigger and bigger and turned as red as a stream of molten lava flowing upwards into the sky. The air was rent by a yell that might have been uttered by a hundred Storm Demons. By the time it finally died away, leaving the Rootkin half dead with terror, the Miniforest was overshadowed by a hovering figure so tall that it almost reached the clouds: a blood-red ogre with evil black eyes and flames instead of hair. “Free!” it bellowed in a voice like thunder. “Free at last!”’
‘Just a minute,’ Echo cut in. ‘You told me there wouldn’t be any giants in this story.’
‘True,’ said Ghoolion. ‘I must have misled you in order to heighten the effect of surprise. Shall I stop?’
‘No, no,’ cried Echo, ‘go on!’
‘Hm …’ said Ghoolion. ‘The Rootkin naturally realised at once that he had released an Omnidestructive Ogre, and he was even more terrified than before - quite rightly so.
‘“Free at long last!” yelled the giant. “Now I can take my revenge! I shall tear this planet to pieces like a scrap of paper! I shall set it ablaze with my flaming hair and poison it with my breath! My hatred has grown so great in the course of time that I won’t be content to destroy this planet alone. No, I shall annihilate
all
the planets and extinguish
all
the suns and reduce the whole confounded universe to rubble and ashes! And then I shall hunt down time itself, which afflicted me so cruelly in my captivity, and torture it to death!”
‘“Oh dear,” thought the Rootkin, “how silly of me! What on earth am I to do now?”’
Ghoolion clutched his head and looked worried. ‘He was in real trouble! How was he to handle the situation with a Rootkin’s limited resources?’
‘By using his wits?’ Echo suggested.
‘Exactly,’ said Ghoolion. ‘And that’s just what he did. “If the giant got out of that bottle,” he thought, “he’ll fit into it again. I must persuade him to go back inside; then I’ll cork the bottle and bury it as deep as possible in the forest.”’
‘Smart idea,’ said Echo.
Ghoolion cleared his throat. ‘The Rootkin turned to the giant. “Excuse me, Your Immensity …” he said humbly.
‘“I never excuse anyone!” the colossus bellowed. “What do you want before I kill you?”
‘The Rootkin swallowed hard. “I was only wondering where you sprang from so suddenly.”
‘“From the bottle you opened, of course. And to show my gratitude, I’ll kill you first.”
‘“Very kind of you,” said the Rootkin. “The trouble is, I can’t believe a giant as huge as you could fit into such a small bottle.”
‘“What?!” the giant thundered. “You don’t believe it? Surely you saw me emerge from it?”
‘“I’m afraid I didn’t. I was so startled I shut my eyes.”
‘“So what? Don’t you believe I was inside there?”
‘“It’s working!” the Rootkin told himself. Aloud, he said: “To be honest, I think it’s quite impossible.”
‘“Shall I prove it to you?” asked the giant.
‘“It’s working, it’s working!” thought the Rootkin. “Oh,” he said, “you couldn’t. How would you set about it?”
‘“By diving back into that bottle like a bolt of lightning down a chimney. Well, shall I prove it to you or not?”
‘“It’s working, it’s working, it’s working!” thought the Rootkin. “You’re welcome to try,” he said, “but you’ll never manage it.”
‘The Omnidestructive Ogre gave him a long look.
‘“What
I
can’t believe”, he said at length, “is that you’re actually trying on the oldest trick in the history of bottled giants. The hackneyed old you’ll-never-get-back-inside-it number. I’m really worried about your mental state, you pinhead. Is that the best you can do?”
‘The Rootkin gulped despite himself. He had genuinely thought it a clever and original idea.
‘The giant roared with laughter. “This is the kind of bedtime story Omnidestructive Ogres have been told for millions of years. It’s elementary: never court a danger you’ve just escaped! Only idiots get back into their bottles! Never try to impress creatures smaller than yourself! Omnidestructive Ogres are taught that at school, even before planetary annihilation.”
‘“All right,” said the Rootkin, “I apologise for insulting your intelligence. But please, before you kill me, tear the planet to pieces, incinerate the universe and torture time to death, answer me one last question. After all, I did set you free.”
‘“Well,” growled the giant, “what’s the question?”
‘“How is it”, asked the Rootkin, trying to prick the giant’s self-esteem, “that, although I’m so small and weak and you’re so big and powerful, I can do something you can’t?”
‘“Like what?” the giant said scornfully.
‘“Well, I could squeeze into that bottle. You couldn’t.”
‘“Hang on!” the giant retorted. “I didn’t say I
couldn’t
squeeze into it, I just don’t
want
to. Anyway, I won’t believe
you
can fit inside until I’ve seen it.”
‘“All right,” said the Rootkin. He went over to the bottle and, with the greatest difficulty, squeezed inside. “Well,” he panted, “could
you
do that?”
‘“No,” said the giant, “not now you’re inside there. There wouldn’t be room for the two of us.”
‘So saying he corked the bottle and condemned the Rootkin to an agonising death by suffocation. But the Omnidestructive Ogre tore the world to pieces and reduced it to ashes with his flaming hair before embarking on an orgy of destruction throughout the universe. He extinguished sun after sun with his lethal breath until all that remained was the icy void of outer space, and that was where he tortured time to death.’
With a sigh, Ghoolion turned back to his microscope.
‘Oh,’ said Echo, ‘the end was rather surprising.’
‘Well, yes. That was a Zamonian story and it’s traditional for Zamonian stories to end in tragedy. What did you expect? That good would triumph over evil and small over big and nice over nasty? That wouldn’t be a proper bedtime story.’
‘What I don’t quite understand is what it has to do with alchemy.’
‘The essential point is that it hasn’t happened yet or we wouldn’t be here now; the whole of the universe would have ceased to exist. That story tells the youthful alchemist that he bears an immense responsibility. If he investigates the smallest of things, he may discover something big - a source of energy more powerful than any we know. That being so, he should think carefully before unleashing it.’
‘Yes,’ said Echo, ‘but if an alchemist spends his whole life searching for that source of energy and actually finds it one day, how will he be able to resist unleashing it?’

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