The Labyrinth of Dreaming Books Read Free Page B

but with a genuine signature, and sent it to myself in a fit of mental derangement? Had my authorial self detached itself and become autonomous? Had I become a victim of schizophrenia, a psychosis triggered by inordinate creativity? The possible side effects of the Orm had never been researched. Perla la Gadeon, whom the Orm had inspired more often than any other writer, had died in a delirium. Dölerich Hirnfiedler, too, was carried off by dementia and expired in his ivory tower. Eiderich Fischnertz was said to have conversed with a horse shortly before dying insane.
    Was that the tribute I had to pay to my fame? Had I not shown symptoms of a split personality in my youth? I’d written a whole volume of letters entitled
To Myself
, but I’d never gone so far as to actually send them off. Heavens, my hypochondriacal fantasies were running away with me again! I definitely needed to calm down. To distract myself, I cast a final glance at the letter. Only then did I catch sight of a postscript written in microscopically small letters at the foot of the last page. It read:
    PS The Shadow King has returned
.
    I stared at the words as if they were a ghostly apparition.
    PS The Shadow King has returned
.
    Cold sweat beaded my brow and the letter in my paw started to tremble . Five words, twenty-four tiny characters on paper, were enough to disconcert me utterly.
    PS The Shadow King has returned
.
    Was it a practical joke? What cruel prankster had sent me this rubbish? One of my innumerable envious rivals? A resentful colleague? One of the many spurned publishers who bombarded me with offers? A demented admirer? With trembling claws I reached for the envelope so as to read the sender’s name and address. I raised the torn paper cover, turned it over, and spelt out the words like a schoolchild:
    Optimus Yarnspinner
The Leather Grotto
Central Catacombs
Bookholm, Zamonia
    Then I burst into sobs, and those tears at last brought me the solace my agitated mind so badly needed.
    1 Clavichorgan : primitive keyboard instrument manufactured exclusively for the inhabitants of Lindworm Castle. The clavichorgan’s keyboard has only twenty-four keys. Unusually wide and robust, the latter were specially designed for the Lindworm’s three-fingered paw. Music of true refinement cannot be played on the clavichorgan. (Tr.)

The Bloody Book
    AT DAWN THE next morning I stole out of Lindworm Castle like a thief. I saw no one, supplied no explanations, provoked no farewell scenes – among Lindworms that was considered a courtesy, not an act of cowardice. If I say that I thoroughly appreciate sentimental scenes in literature but firmly reject them in reality, that applies to all my kind. It may be because we Lindworms can for the most part express our emotions through our literary work. In society and in interpersonal relations we’re exceptionally cool, composed and courteous – indeed, almost formal. Saying goodbye, especially for a considerable period, is one of the least pleasant things a Lindworm can conceive of. I feel sure, therefore, that my friends and relations were subsequently grateful to me for sparing them the embarrassment of a farewell scene.
    I walked unaccosted along the deserted, dew-damp main street that spirals down from the castle’s summit to its base, passing shuttered shops in which unsuspecting Lindworms lay peacefully snoring. Having composed a brief, hexametrical letter of farewell during the night, I addressed it to the entire community by tossing it into the gutter. In so doing I was observing an ancient custom whereby departures from Lindworm Castle are poetically governed. The risk that the wind might blow my verses over the battlements of my place of birth unread, or that the ink might be obliterated by a shower of rain, was one aspect of this custom. We Lindworms may be an emotionally crippled species, but we don’t lack a sense of the dramatic.

    It was getting light although the sun had not yet risen. When had I