The Alchemaster's Apprentice

Mortal Friends


When Echo got back to the castle, exhausted and depressed by his futile excursion, he sensed the Alchemaster’s presence as soon as he entered. Ghoolion had undoubtedly returned, even though Echo could neither see nor hear nor smell him. When he wasn’t at home the castle was as dead, silent and motionless as befitted such an ancient ruin. When he was there, however, it seemed to awaken to a secret life for which Echo had developed a kind of additional sense. He could hear masonry groan and furniture creak, see carpets develop gooseflesh and ripples traverse expanses of wallpaper. Fireplaces yawned and figures in paintings stirred almost imperceptibly, dust devils went cavorting along the passages and curtains seemed to bulge under the pressure of ghostly hands - the whole building came alive with spectral activity. Distant singing filled the air, as did impudent, surreptitious whispers that ceased as soon as one concentrated on them. They might have been attributable to the wind or some other natural cause, but Echo guessed that something more was involved. His suspicion that a sinister relationship existed between the old building and the Alchemaster steadily intensified.

He felt like an actor on the stage of a theatre whose seats were occupied by invisible spirits. There was nobody to be seen, but one could hear the whispers and stifled coughs that accompanied the drama he and Ghoolion were performing. He still wasn’t sure what roles they were playing. Were they opponents in an exceptionally protracted duel? Mortal enemies, even? No, Echo had absolutely no inclination to fight anyone to the death. Mortal friends might have been the more appropriate term.

He climbed the stairs, cursing himself for the undiplomatic way in which he had approached the Uggly. Of course she’d been disconcerted by his precipitate request to help him outwit the Alchemaster! The Ugglies had long been bullied and oppressed by Ghoolion, so why should one of them incur the old devil’s hostility by helping a Crat who had turned up out of the blue?

Yet the Uggly had somehow taken his fancy. She was appallingly hideous and stank like a sack of dead frogs, it was true, but he’d taken a spontaneous liking to her, or he would never have blurted out his request so naively. She had impressed him - not by her appearance, but by her behaviour. She would have given some food to a stray kitten miaowing at night outside her door. That didn’t accord with most people’s idea of the Ugglies. He felt almost certain that things would have turned out differently if he hadn’t behaved so clumsily. But it was no use crying over spilt milk. If he scratched at her door again, she would probably stick him in the stove.

Echo was just passing the big room full of furniture draped in dust sheets when he scented Ghoolion’s presence. He hadn’t entirely lost his fear of the place, but this time he knew at once exactly what was going on when he heard the Alchemaster sobbing. He couldn’t feel sorry for him. His initial impulse was to walk on, but he paused and thought for a moment. Then he turned and went in. The night had been a washout in any case, so why not go one step further and call Ghoolion to account?

Echo uttered a loud, audible miaow as he entered the room. That gave Ghoolion time to save face and wipe away his tears before they confronted each other. With head erect, Echo threaded his way between the dust-sheeted pieces of furniture until he was standing at the Alchemaster’s feet.

‘Why did you do it?’ he asked brusquely. ‘I thought this was just between you and me. Why did you have to kill a friend of mine as well?’

Ghoolion stared at him in surprise. ‘What are you talking about? What am I supposed to have done?’

Not for the first time, Echo was impressed by the Alchemaster’s sangfroid.

‘I’m talking about Theodore.’

‘Theodore? Who’s Theodore?’

Echo froze. It hadn’t occurred to him until now that the dead bird might not have been Theodore after all. If so, his careless talk could put his friend in extreme danger. He decided to remain silent.

‘Just a minute,’ said Ghoolion. ‘Theodore … Wasn’t that the name of your late mistress’s manservant?’

Echo persisted in his silence. If the old devil was putting on an act, he was making an excellent job of it. Ghoolion knitted his brow as if working out a knotty problem whose solution he wanted to find unaided.

‘Ah, now I get it!’ he said at length. ‘Didn’t you say he’d died of some frightful disease? But of course, then I must have been responsible!’ He smote his forehead with the flat of his hand. ‘After all, people hold me responsible for almost every fatality in Malaisea, including those resulting from senility and suicide.’ He chuckled derisively.

‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ Echo said curtly and stalked off, thanking his lucky stars that he’d extricated himself from an awkward situation so easily.

‘Oh, come!’ Ghoolion called after him. ‘Surely you aren’t still cross about the Leathermouse episode?’

Echo paused and turned.

‘No,’ he said. ‘It was a very interesting experience, to be honest, but it would have been nice if you’d put me in the picture first.’

Ghoolion sighed. ‘That’s just the problem. It wouldn’t have worked if I had. My guinea pigs tend to resist, either consciously or unconsciously, and don’t undergo a complete transformation. They simply have wild hallucinations.’

Echo had to admit that he’d never felt so alive as he had during his spell of existence as a Leathermouse.

Ghoolion laughed indulgently. Then he did something he’d never done before: he patted his lap. It was an invitation to Echo to jump up and make himself at home there.

Echo retreated a step. No, that was going too far. The Theodore question was still far from resolved, and anyway, submitting to the caresses of his own executioner was absolutely out of the question!

Ghoolion grinned. ‘Come on,’ he said.

Echo took a step closer. Tactically speaking, it mightn’t be such a bad idea to establish a certain bond of trust between himself and Ghoolion. Last but not least, it was quite a time since anyone had stroked him, and being stroked was one of a Crat’s basic requirements, like eating and sleeping. Where was the harm in it? He would only have to bring himself to tolerate the smells that clung to the Alchemaster’s cloak, but he’d become inured to them a long time ago.

Echo plucked up his courage and, despite his obesity, performed a successful leap on to Ghoolion’s lap. Then he lay down and looked at the old man expectantly. Ghoolion hesitated. His hand hovered in the air for a moment, but he eventually lowered it and proceeded to tickle the nape of Echo’s neck. Softly at first, then more and more audibly, Echo began to purr. And so the two of them - Crat and Alchemaster, victim and executioner - lingered in that eerie room for a long time yet: two ‘mortal friends’ companionably relaxing in the nocturnal gloom.