A Wild Ride Through The Night (9 page)

Universal panic ensued. Gustave wrenched at the reins and fumbled with his lance, Pancho reared up on his hind legs and wheeled on the spot as though encircled by rats. At that moment a pallid moonbeam pierced the overcast and shone straight down on a monster leaning against a ruined wall only a few yards away. ‘It was me,’ it said.

The monster had a head like a dragon’s skull. Its arms, which were composed of gnarled wood, ended in flexible, plantlike tentacles. The rest of it was mercifully obscured by the wall it was leaning against. More tentacles wriggling through cracks between the stones seemed to suggest that the ruined masonry concealed still more horrific portions of its anatomy.

‘Well,’ the monster boomed, ‘are you paying the Valley of the Monsters a visit?’

A big wolf spider crawled out of its right eye socket and went scuttling down the wall.

‘Er, yes,’ Gustave answered quickly. ‘And a very good evening to you.’

‘You’re only passing through, I trust, not planning to spend a vacation here. Aren’t they awful, these desolate surroundings? These dismal forms of plant life that proliferate everywhere? These depressing climatic conditions? Living here is like stagnating under a steamed-up cheese cover.’ The bony skull heaved a deep sigh.

Gustave dismounted. The monster seemed civilised despite its frightful appearance, so he signalled his peaceful intentions by replacing his lance in its sheath and leaving his helmet behind with Pancho. So as to be prepared for certain eventualities, however, he kept his iron skullcap on and retained his swordbelt. With one sweaty hand gripping the hilt of his sword, he clambered over the tilted, uneven blocks of stone that lay between him and the monster.

The monster’s chalk-white head peered over the wall like some puppet from a Punch-and-Judy show designed for audiences with exceptionally strong nerves. Gustave strode up to it, took his courage in both hands, and struck a knightly pose.

‘Are you the Most Monstrous of All Monsters?’ he asked firmly.

Some crunching, sucking noises emanated from the shadows at the foot of the wall. A few tentacles withdrew and reappeared through cracks elsewhere. The huge death’s-head rose and fell in an unnatural way, like a carnival mask bobbing on the end of a stick. ‘The Most Monstrous of All Monsters?’ repeated the monster. ‘Yes, I suppose I am …’ It paused for effect before continuing: ‘Or used to be, long, long ago …’

It paused again, seemingly afraid to utter the next words. ‘But then another monster came along. Well, it had always been there in reality, but the longer it existed the more monstrous it became. No,
the
most I am is the Second Most Monstrous of All Monsters. My name is Anxiety.’ The monster bowed its head and followed up its statement with another deep sigh like the wheezing of a decrepit pair of bellows.

‘Never fear,’ it went on without waiting for a response, ‘I won’t accuse you of being tactless for asking such a direct question. Milk can turn sour at the very sight of me, I know. I nearly fainted once, when I caught sight of my reflection in a pool of water—and I was considerably more attractive then than I am now.’

The monster groaned at the recollection. ‘You’re bound to be wondering what’s so awful about anxiety, right?’

‘Er, yes,’ said Gustave. Although it wasn’t true (he was far too agitated to wonder about anything), he thought it wisest to agree with the monster on principle.

‘People take me for granted—that’s one of my most disastrous characteristics.’ The monster gave a hollow laugh. Stone grated on stone as if the creature were bracing itself against the wall with all its might.

‘Look around you and see how effective I’ve been. I’ve ravaged this place for many years—ravaged it good and proper. I devour men, women and children regardless of their social class and personal character. I’m ruthless and relentless, cold-blooded and implacable. In short, I’m a servant of Death—one of the best, what’s more.’

Gustave pricked up his ears. ‘You’re a servant of Death?’

‘Aren’t we all?’ Brushing aside his question with a tentacular gesture expressive of boredom, the monster continued its self-revelation. ‘In the end, I grew a little weary one day and decided to lean against this wall—only for a moment.’

The skull gave a deep, dry cough.

‘Well, as you can see, I’m still here many, many years later, so something
crucial
must have happened to me in the meantime, mustn’t it?’

Gustave nodded, but this time not just for courtesy’s sake. He was genuinely interested to see what the monster was leading up to.

‘I’d begun to
worry
! I’d begun to question the meaning of my existence! Can you imagine? The fact is,
Anxiety was beginning to worry!
Not a particularly clever career move, my boy, I see that now, because it was then that I lost my pre-eminent status as the Most Monstrous of All Monsters.’

‘But isn’t a touch of self-doubt a good thing at times?’ Gustave asked, just to keep the conversational ball rolling.

‘Doubt?’ exclaimed the monster. ‘I’m not talking about a healthy dose of scepticism, my young friend! No, I didn’t
doubt
, I
worried
, and they’re as different as … as thinking and dreaming. I started to worry about everything, absolutely everything! I worry about my health, about the future, about the present—even about the past, which is a particularly futile occupation.’

The death’s-head emitted a rattling laugh. ‘Yes, I started worrying, and that has made me what you see today: dead, dried-up timber, bone, horn, stone, teeth without nerves, eye sockets devoid of eyes.’ The monster threw up its wooden tentacles in despair. They trembled pitifully, outlined against the night sky, then collapsed and dangled there inert. The spider came crawling back up the wall and disappeared into the eye socket. The bony skull’s lament culminated in a long, inarticulate sigh.

‘
This really can’t be the Most Monstrous of All Monsters
,’ Gustave told himself, ‘
it’s far too much of a cry-baby. I’m only wasting time here
.’

‘You’re only wasting time here, my boy,’ the monster said softly. ‘I’m sure I’m boring you with my tales of woe.’

Gustave gave a start. He had a nasty feeling that the monster had looked straight into his head.

‘But perhaps I can give you something to take on your way,’ the creature went on. ‘It’s nothing much, philosophically speaking, just a piece of sound advice: Make the most of every moment!’

Gustave had read similar well-meant proverbs on calendars.

‘Yes, I know, you’ve read similar well-meant proverbs on calendars, haven’t you? Still, it can’t be repeated too often.’

‘I’ll make a note of it,’ Gustave said politely, slowly beginning to back away.

‘No, I’m not the Most Monstrous of All Monsters, not any more.’ The monster might have been talking to itself. ‘I’m still pretty monstrous, but only moderately so by local standards. I’m neither as pathetically unmonstrous as those absurd twin-headed giant snails on the hillsides above this valley, nor as humongously monstrous as the
Knight-Eating Giant Saurian of Lake Blue-Blood
. Me, I’m only averagely monstrous.’

Gustave was suddenly galvanised. He came to a halt.

‘The Knight-Eating Giant Saurian of Lake Blue-Blood?’ he said. ‘That sounds interesting. Sounds as if it could really be the Most Monstrous of All Monsters.’

‘Well, that’s what it claims to be.’

‘Really? Can you tell me where to find the creature?’

‘It’s quite simple. At the end of the valley, you must ride up into
the
hills and under the
Weeping Waterfalls
to
Groaning Glen
. From there you make your way across the
Plain of the Terrible Titans
to the
Malodorous Mountains
. Lake Blue-Blood is situated at their most malodorous point.’ The monster drew a deep, whistling breath.

‘Many thanks,’ said Gustave.

‘You’re welcome.’ The monster dismissed this expression of gratitude by waving one of its tentacles. ‘But before you go: Didn’t you wonder, while listening to my story, whether there was some kind of point to it?’

Gustave gave a tight-lipped smile. ‘Oh, I enjoyed it anyway, point or no point.’

‘That’s good, because there wasn’t one.’

Gustave stumbled backwards for a few steps, grinning and waving goodbye. Then he turned, hurried across the ruins to his horse, and climbed into the saddle. Pancho trotted off. As for the monster, it relapsed into its former immobility and became a lonely monument to melancholy once more.

THEY RODE ON
through the Valley of the Monsters for a long way yet. Their route took them past more dismal ruins and withered vegetation, over countless skeletons, both animal and human, and through the scuttling, squeaking swarms of rats and insects that seemed to have made the rubble-strewn plain their own. But they encountered no more monstrosities apart from two twin-headed giant snails grazing peacefully in the mist at the end of the valley next morning. Between them lay a steeply ascending track that led out of the valley and into the mountains.

Once across the first mountain pass, they were confronted by an awe-inspiring sight: a dark ravine, narrower than the first but considerably deeper. It was enclosed by jagged crags above and filled with billowing clouds of vapour below. Dozens of waterfalls cascaded down the sheer walls of rock, thundering like a never-ending storm and pattering like perpetual rain. Blue-black birds circled above the swirling spray, croaking eerily.

‘These must be the Weeping Waterfalls,’ said Gustave. ‘Not a very pleasant spot, but we’ve got to get past it somehow.’

‘Not very pleasant is putting it mildly,’ remarked Pancho, who hadn’t failed to notice that their route led
beneath
the waterfalls. Little more than an arm’s-breadth wide, it was an uneven ledge interspersed with puddles and slippery with lichen. ‘I hope this proves worth the effort,’ he added sulkily.

‘It had better,’ said Gustave. ‘My life is at stake.’

‘So is mine,’ the horse retorted as it teetered along, cautiously testing each foothold in turn.

Their route led upwards, then downwards. On and on they went along the slippery ledge, a sheer drop on their right and the wall of
rock
on their left. From time to time they had no choice but to plough straight through a waterfall, and Gustave’s armour soon filled with gurgling, ice-cold water. Then came a long uphill stretch that made Pancho curse incessantly. At last the rocks suddenly parted to disclose a view of some lush mountain meadows. The grassland sloped down, undulating gently, to a valley through which, to judge by the faint murmur that filled the air, a stream was flowing.

‘That must be Groaning Glen!’ Gustave exclaimed.

Pancho looked relieved. ‘It doesn’t seem such a depressing place. I can’t hear any groans.’

He stumbled on and, sure enough, they came to a crystal-clear stream flowing through a birchwood gilded with sunlight. Twittering songbirds circled overhead, butterflies and dragonflies fluttered and whirred through the air. Pancho trotted over to the stream to quench his thirst, Gustave dismounted and did likewise. When he swung himself into the saddle once more, he noticed a many-turreted castle perched on a hill overlooking the valley.

‘We seem to be back in civilised parts,’ he said, wondering how he was going to find the lake-dwelling Most Monstrous of All Monsters in such peaceful surroundings. The countryside seemed to be completely monster-free. ‘Perhaps we should pay a visit to that castle up there. Perhaps it’s the home of a wise king or a beautiful princess or some other person who can tell us the way to Lake Blue-Blood.’

‘Oh, naturally,’ sighed Pancho as he trotted off again, making for the castle. ‘Of course it’s the home of a wise king or a beautiful princess—both, probably, and they’re baking you a cake at this very moment.’

But the higher they climbed the further the castle seemed to recede. Repeatedly obscured by dense swathes of mist, it vanished and reappeared in turn, but they never got close enough to make out more than an alluring silhouette. Then the cotton-wool mist swallowed it up altogether. When the mist finally dispersed, Gustave saw that what he had mistaken for a castle was just a bizarre chain of towering crags that bore only a vague resemblance to turrets and battlements.

‘Hm, I hesitate to tell you this,’ Pancho observed, ‘but we’ve been fooled by a
fata montana
—a mountain mirage.’ They had halted on a rocky plateau, bare except for a few clumps of grass.

Gustave groaned.

‘It’s quite a common phenomenon at high altitudes,’ Pancho explained. ‘The mountains’ resemblance to architectural features, which is often quite pronounced, coupled with poor visibility, the effect of thin air on one’s optical nerves, and the suggestibility of the brain, frequently give rise to hallucinations which—’

‘Oh, shut up!’ snapped Gustave, and silenced the horse by digging his spurs into its flanks. Pancho’s pseudoscientific remarks were beginning to get on his nerves.

For some time now, they had been riding across a highland plateau strewn with isolated boulders. They had lost all sense of direction, and Gustave was afraid they were going in a circle. Thin shreds of mist floated among the rocks, grey banks of cloud drifted overhead. Raven-hued birds of frightening dimensions circled above the plain in search of prey. The light was fading fast, and not the smallest sign of civilisation could be discerned anywhere. Gustave and Pancho were dispirited by hunger and fatigue.