The Alchemaster's Apprentice

The Second Nut


Now that he was entirely dependent on himself, Echo had to use his own grey matter to devise a new strategy. After running the equivalent of a marathon up and down the castle stairs, he had retired to his basket for a rest and was communing with himself.

‘Where is Ghoolion’s weak spot?’ he wondered. ‘Where is he most vulnerable? He smiles, he laughs, he makes jokes - he even weeps occasionally, so he must have feelings like any other creature.’

He turned over on his back and stared at the ceiling.

‘Why does he have such a passion for cooking? Anyone who’s so devoted to an art that gives other people pleasure must surely be capable of unselfishness. Could I appeal to his better nature? If so, how?’

The ceiling above him suddenly turned gold and something even brighter materialised at its central point. At first Echo thought it was the Cooked Ghost, but then he recognised it as the Golden Squirrel from the Tree of Nutledge.

‘Hello again!’ it squeaked. ‘Are you prepared to let me help you undertake some important cognitive processes?’

Echo stared at the apparition open-mouthed. He could feel a warmth that suffused his whole body with a sense of serene well-being.

‘Those are the sympathetic frequencies that emanate from the Cogitating Eggs,’ said the squirrel. ‘They transmit those powerful vibrations from the Valley of the Cogitating Eggs so that I can pass them on to you. I’m their telepathic postman, so to speak.’

‘Vibrations?’ said Echo.

‘Yes. You could also call them faith. Faith is essential when one has visions like the ones you’re having, otherwise you’d lose your mind.’

‘It isn’t my mind I’m worried about,’ Echo replied, ‘it’s my survival.’

‘That’s why I’m here. You’re working out a new strategy, aren’t you?’

‘I’ve been wondering how to arouse Ghoolion’s pity.’

‘That won’t be easy. He’s got a heart of ice.’

‘But I’ve seen him shed tears.’

‘Perhaps he had something in his eye. Or toothache.’

‘No, there was another reason.’

‘Good,’ said the squirrel, ‘that’s a start, but you’d best begin with yourself. Can you remember any incident in your life that moved you deeply? Anything that aroused your pity?’

‘No,’ Echo replied.

‘Then try! Think! Search your memory!’

Echo did his best. Pity? Compassion? No, he’d seldom had recourse to those emotions in his brief existence.

‘The only person I’ve ever felt sorry for is me.’

‘That doesn’t count!’ the squirrel exclaimed. ‘Think harder! Maybe something will occur to you.’

Echo racked his brains.

‘Have you ever wept, but at someone else’s misfortune, not your own?’ the squirrel prompted him.

Echo recalled the occasion when he’d pushed a blind mole into a stream. Except that he hadn’t wept, he’d laughed.

‘That was malicious glee!’ the squirrel told him disapprovingly. ‘That wasn’t pity, it was the opposite.’

‘I know,’ said Echo. ‘I can’t think why it popped into my mind.’

‘It’s a part of your cognitive process,’ the squirrel explained. ‘Your brain is sorting out suitable emotions. Go on looking. Go back as far as you can.’

A vague memory surfaced in Echo’s mind. An incident he’d almost forgotten, it was so long ago.

‘I do believe I’ve thought of something,’ he said. Tears sprang to his eyes at the mere recollection. ‘It’s a story I heard when I was little.’

‘Bravo!’ the squirrel cried triumphantly. ‘Congratulations, my friend. That was your second flash of inspiration. We’ll be seeing each other only once more.’

The golden glow faded and the squirrel turned translucent.

‘Hey!’ Echo called. ‘Don’t you want to hear the story?’

‘No!’ the squirrel called back. Its voice was very faint now. ‘Don’t tell it to me, tell it to Ghoolion.’

Ingotville


‘Listen, Master,’ said Echo, having devoured the delicious fillet of sole Ghoolion had given him for supper in the kitchen that night. ‘This time I’d like to entertain you for once. By telling you a story.’

Ghoolion proceeded to fill his pipe. ‘I didn’t know storytelling was your forte,’ he said with a grin.

‘That makes two of us,’ Echo replied, ‘but I can at least try.’

‘You’re full of surprises. What sort of story is it?’

‘A love story.’

‘Oh,’ said Ghoolion. He looked as if he’d swallowed a cockroach.

‘Don’t worry,’ Echo said quickly, ‘it’s a thoroughly tragic love story. The saddest story I’ve ever heard.’

Ghoolion’s face brightened. ‘Go on, then,’ he said, lighting his pipe. ‘I like tragic stories.’

Echo made himself comfortable on the kitchen table. He sat down on his haunches and supported himself on his forepaws.

‘I must begin by emphasising that this story is true in every detail. It’s about a very beautiful young woman.’

Ghoolion nodded, puffing away. Dense clouds of smoke ascended into the air.

‘Picture to yourself the most beautiful girl imaginable! She was so beautiful that there would be no point, in view of my meagre talent for storytelling, in even trying to put her beauty into words. That would far exceed my capabilities, so I’ll refrain from mentioning whether she was a blonde or a brunette or a redhead, or whether her hair was long or short or curly or smooth as silk. I shall also refrain from the usual comparisons where her complexion was concerned, for instance milk, velvet, satin, peaches and cream, honey or ivory. Instead, I shall leave it entirely up to your imagination to fill in this blank with your own ideal of feminine beauty.’

It could be inferred from Ghoolion’s expression and the faraway look in his eyes that he had already complied with Echo’s suggestion. His thin lips were set in one of those rare smiles that made him look almost likeable. To Echo, the fact that Ghoolion had any kind of ideal of feminine beauty was an encouraging sign.

‘Well,’ he went on, ‘at the time of my story, this beautiful girl lived in Ingotville.’

‘Ingotville?’ Ghoolion broke in. He was looking taken aback.

‘Yes, Ingotville. Anything wrong with that?’

‘Er … no, no, not at all.’ Ghoolion puffed at his pipe. ‘Go on,’ he commanded.

‘Well, Ingotville, as everyone knows, is the ugliest, dirtiest, most dangerous and unpopular city in the whole of Zamonia. It consists entirely of metal, of rusty iron and poisonous lead, tarnished copper and brass, nuts and bolts, machines and factories. The city itself is said to be a gigantic machine that’s very, very slowly propelling itself towards an unknown destination. Most of the Zamonian continent’s metalworking industry is based there and even the products it manufactures are ugly: weapons and barbed wire, garrottes and Iron Maidens, cages and handcuffs, suits of armour and executioners’ axes. Most of the inhabitants dwell in corrugated-iron huts black with coal dust and corroded by the acid rain that falls there almost incessantly. Those who can afford to - the gold barons and lead tycoons, arms dealers and arms manufacturers - live in steel fortresses, in constant fear of their starving and discontented underlings and workers. Ingotville is a city traversed by streams of acid and oil, and perpetually overhung by a pall of soot and storm clouds in which shafts of lightning flash and thunder rumbles. The grimy air is forever filled with the pounding and hissing of machinery, the squeak of rusty hinges and the rattle of chains. Many of its inhabitants are machines themselves. It’s a vile city, perhaps the vilest in all Zamonia.’

Ghoolion nodded again. ‘You’re doing pretty well,’ he said. ‘Very atmospheric. That’s just the way it looks.’

‘You know the place?’ Echo asked.

‘I do indeed. But go on.’

‘Now picture this contrast: the lovely girl and the hideous city. Beauty and the beast. Innocence and a metallic Moloch.’

‘I can imagine it,’ said Ghoolion. He was gazing into the distance once more.

‘She was the daughter of a lead tycoon and lived in his fortress built of precorrodion - that’s a very special kind of metal which rusts on the surface but, beneath that deceptive layer, consists of impenetrable steel. The fortress had loopholes instead of windows and, instead of doors, drawbridges spanning a moat filled with acid.’

Echo paused for a moment. His storytelling was quite a success. He’d ignited a spark of interest in Ghoolion, he could tell.

‘When our lovely heroine at last reached marriageable age, the lead tycoon invited every young man in the city to take part in a contest for his daughter’s hand - provided he had a certain amount of money. Like everything else in Ingotville, the contest involved metal: who could bend the thickest iron bar, who could bring lead to the boil the fastest, who could forge the finest sword, who could throw a gold ball the farthest - that sort of thing. In the end there were only three suitors left. The decision now depended on their mental agility. Our heroine had made it a condition that she would ask each of them three questions and the one who thought of the cleverest answers would be awarded her hand in marriage.’

Ghoolion had grown quite still. He wasn’t even puffing at his pipe, just staring at Echo with an inscrutable expression.

‘But the questions were so subtle and ingenious that none of the suitors managed to come up with sensible answers to them. The lead tycoon was at his wits’ end, the onlookers started to grumble. They felt they’d been duped by our shrewd and beautiful heroine, who seemed unwilling to bestow her heart on anyone at all.’

Echo paused for effect.

‘But then another young man entered the arena. He apologised for being late and whipped through the first part of the contest at lightning speed: he bent the thickest iron bar, brought lead to the boil the fastest, forged the finest sword, threw a gold ball the farthest, et cetera, et cetera. Then, at last, he faced our heroine’s questions.’

Ghoolion had deposited his cold pipe on the kitchen table. He seemed even more affected by the story than Echo had hoped, yet the climax was still a long way off.

‘Well,’ Echo went on, ‘it was obvious to everyone present that our heroine had taken a fancy to this young suitor. He was extremely good-looking, but I shall refrain from giving a description of him in this case too. Simply picture the handsomest young man imaginable.’

‘That’s easy,’ Ghoolion said in a curiously unemotional voice.

‘Really?’

‘I need only picture the opposite of myself.’

Echo was surprised by Ghoolion’s modest self-assessment, but he took it as a good sign.

‘Our heroine put her first question: “How much is one plus one?”

‘A murmur of approval ran round the room, now that it was clear she’d fallen for the young man and wanted to make his path to her heart as easy as possible.

‘“Two,” he said.

‘“And how much is two divided by two?”

‘“One,” he replied.

‘A few people laughed and the lead tycoon heaved a sigh of relief. Our heroine put her third and last question: “If I asked you to do me a great favour, one that would deprive you of your heart’s desire, would you do it?”

‘Another murmur went up and the lead tycoon looked round in bewilderment. What sort of question was that?

‘“Of course,” the young man answered gravely.

‘“Come with me, then,” said our heroine. She took him by the hand and led him from the room, leaving a confused babble of voices behind them. When they came to a secluded part of her father’s fortress, she paused and gazed into his eyes.

‘“Please listen,” she said. “I’ve taken to you, I must confess - very much so, in fact, but the problem is this: I’m engaged already. My heart belongs to another.”

‘The young man didn’t reply.

‘“My father still doesn’t know this,” the girl went on. “I took part in this contest purely to gain time for my beloved. In order to ask for my hand in marriage, he needs to acquire a hundred thousand pyras. That sum is the basic requirement for anyone hoping to marry a girl of my rank, as you know, but he comes of a poor family and hasn’t managed to raise it yet.”

‘She looked round anxiously, as if afraid of being overheard.

‘“Since I know you possess that sum, or you couldn’t have entered this contest,” she went on, “here is my shameless request: can you lend my beloved the hundred thousand pyras and enable him to ask for my hand? He will definitely repay you some day, with compound interest. You can rest assured of my undying gratitude.”

‘Although the young man had turned pale, he steadfastly preserved his composure. “Of course,” he told her. “Nothing matters to me more than your happiness.”

‘Our heroine gave him a kiss. “How very unselfish of you,” she said. “You must promise that we’ll remain good friends and that you’ll come to visit me regularly.”

‘“I promise,” the young man said softly and took his leave. The next day he brought her the sum of money in question. She kissed him and extracted another promise that he would come to see her again before long. Then she let him go.

‘As soon as he’d gone our heroine clasped the purse to her bosom. She was overjoyed because she didn’t have another suitor at all; she had simply wanted to ascertain the true extent of the young man’s feelings for her.’

Ghoolion groaned aloud - whether at the story or in physical pain, Echo couldn’t tell. The look of distress on the Alchemaster’s face might have been caused by either.

‘Well,’ Echo went on, ‘no one could have given a greater demonstration of his love. Our heroine waited for the young man to visit her, as he had promised, so that she could confess her cruel subterfuge and marry him.’

Echo sighed.

‘But he never came. A week, two weeks, a month went by. Our heroine became anxious. She eventually took to her bed, sick with worry, and lay there clasping the purse as if it were her beloved. Then messengers came bearing news: after leaving the fortress, the young man had turned his back on Ingotville and joined an army of mercenaries. Not long afterwards he had been killed during the Battle of the Gloomberg Mountains.’

Ghoolion’s spindly fingers clutched his cloak in the region of his heart. His eyelids fluttered.

‘Our heroine almost went insane when she heard this news. She tore her clothes, scratched her face and wept for a whole month. Then she left Ingotville and roamed the length and breadth of Zamonia. At last, having tossed the purse of money into Demon’s Gulch, she settled down in Malaisea, where she mourned her dead love in silence. She led a reclusive life. Whenever she left the house, which she seldom did, she concealed herself in a cloak with a hood, for she remained strikingly beautiful, even in old age.’

Ghoolion gave a sudden start. Echo flinched.

‘What?!’ the Alchemaster cried in a voice like thunder. ‘She’s here in Malaisea?’

‘No, she doesn’t live here any more - she died not long ago. It’s a true story, though, I didn’t make it up. It’s the story of my former mistress’s life. She told it to me when I was little.’

Ghoolion went reeling across the kitchen as if someone had dealt him a mighty blow on the head.

‘She was here all the time … here in Malaisea …’ he muttered, more to himself than to Echo. Then he looked round once more. Echo shrank under his gaze, for it conveyed a despair that bordered on insanity. A tear trickled from the Alchemaster’s eye as he tottered to the door.

‘She was here all the time,’ he whispered again. Then he blundered out.

Echo hadn’t been expecting such an emotional outburst. What did Ghoolion’s mysterious words signify? He jumped down off the table, fled from the kitchen and hid in his basket till bedtime.