The Alchemaster's Apprentice

The Toadwoods


The foliage in the Toadwoods was so dense that a kind of permanent twilight prevailed at ground level. Moreover, visibility was further reduced by the thin skeins of mist forever rising from expanses of marshland and drifting around the blackened trunks of the ancient trees.

‘Well, I suppose I’ll have to press on,’ Echo said to himself. ‘I opened my trap too wide, so I deserve to have it stuffed with Toadmoss. I can already smell the stuff, fortunately. I must head in the direction of those fallen tree trunks.’

The fallen tree trunks resembled the backs of gigantic lizards lying in wait for him in the grass. His progress was hampered by the prickly weeds and stinging nettles proliferating everywhere. Izanuela had a nerve, sending a little Crat off into a wilderness like this. Still, she’d risked her life on the mother of all roofs and he wanted to repay her. It would be shameful to return with nothing to show for his trip. He sniffed the air again.

‘I must go deeper into the woods. I’d better follow that mist.’

A wisp of vapour was drifting ahead of him. It reminded him of the Cooked Ghost and their joint excursions along the passages in Ghoolion’s castle. Ah, the castle! The Alchemaster’s sinister old ruin seemed like a luxury hotel out here. The trees appeared to be drawing ever closer together the further he went. He could see plump beetles and outsize ants and spiders crawling around on their bark.

It was Echo’s first time in a forest. ‘I suppose I’m the urban type,’ he thought. ‘Forests aren’t my bowl of milk.’ Twigs snapped, leaves rustled. Trees bent over him like hunchbacks, groping for him with their gnarled branches. The agonised cry of some animal rang out in the distance. Something drummed on a hollow tree trunk. Then absolute silence returned. ‘I can’t understand what people see in forests,’ Echo muttered to himself. ‘Personally, I’d sooner have a nice, well-kept municipal park.’

He heard a low, throaty sound, possibly made by a fat frog. It came from the direction in which his nose was taking him.

You’re feeling terminally sick?

Off to the Toadwoods with you, quick!



The Uggly’s words rang in his ears. Did the Incurables really exist, or were they just another old wives’ tale concocted by grown-ups to dissuade their children from wandering off into the woods?

All alone you there will be,

with no one else around to see.



‘Precisely,’ thought Echo. ‘No one wants to be here, least of all yours truly! Where’s that confounded moss?’ He lifted his little nose and sniffed the air. The scent of Toadmoss was growing stronger. For the first time in his life, he cursed his acute sense of smell for leading him ever deeper into this wilderness.

So dig yourself a grave to fit

and then, my friend, lie down in it.



‘Rhyming is one thing,’ Echo reflected, ‘digging your own grave is quite another.’ What a gruesome thought! Who dreamt up these ideas? Poets were strange creatures. That Knulf Krockenkrampf needed his head examined.

The sun was sinking. Just to make matters worse, the forest was now populated by shadowy figures that stole through the trees and waved to him from the topmost branches. ‘No,’ he told himself bravely, ‘the branches are simply stirring in the evening breeze. There aren’t any shadowy figures. Or Incurables.’ All that was incurable was his own lively imagination.

In the distance he heard again the low, throaty sound. The trees thinned and he eventually came to a narrow path, a beaten track leading in the direction from which the scent of Toadmoss was drifting towards him.

‘Ah, civilisation,’ he thought, feeling relieved. Well, only what might be regarded as civilisation in such surroundings: a boggy path dotted with puddles and stumbling blocks in the shape of tree roots and boulders. Still, no more thistles and stinging nettles. A rough aid to direction, at least. Presumably, this was the path Izanuela herself had taken when gathering Toadmoss.

Echo was further reassured by the protracted drum roll of a wood-pecker. ‘There are only harmless little forest creatures here,’ he told himself. ‘Woodpeckers and frogs, beetles and squirrels.’ He rounded a bend in the path half hidden by the massive root of an oak tree. What awaited him beyond it made his heart stand still for a moment. He stood there transfixed. Seated with its back against the oak tree’s blackened trunk was the skeleton of a man. His white bones had been picked clean by ants and were cocooned in spiders’ webs. Wild ivy was growing around his thigh bones and between his ribs. A red forest rose was flowering on his lower jaw, which had dropped open. Echo fluffed out his tail and hissed.

You’re feeling terminally sick?

Off to the Toadwoods with you, quick!



A butterfly landed on the skull and folded its wings. This had been an Incurable, no doubt about it, but he was dead. ‘It isn’t a pleasant sight,’ thought Echo, ‘but it’s less alarming than being ambushed by someone with an incurable disease.’ The poor man hadn’t even had time to dig himself a grave. Echo’s tail resumed its normal appearance.

All alone you there will be,

with no one else around to see.



Echo found it awful to picture the man dying all by himself in the woods. On the other hand, wasn’t it awful to die anywhere? And wasn’t everyone alone when the time came? He shook off the disagreeable thought and walked on along the path. Really nice of Izanuela to send him blithely off into a wood with a skeleton lurking in it!

A skeleton? Echo froze once more. Another one was lying a few paces further on. A miaow of alarm escaped his lips, but he didn’t hiss or fluff out his tail. This man’s remains were lying full length in the grass. Busy bees and bumblebees were droning around a whole garden of weeds and wild flowers that had sprouted from between his bones. ‘A peaceful sight, actually,’ Echo thought to himself. Why were people so scared of skeletons? Nothing could do one less harm than a skeleton and in this particular case, dead was really better than alive.

He walked on, keeping his eyes peeled so as not to be startled by another dead Incurable. Wisely so, because it wasn’t long before the next one came into view. Like a knight on a medieval tomb, he was lying on a huge boulder with his eye sockets directed at the canopy of foliage overhead and his skeletal arms folded on his chest. Whether or not he hadn’t liked the thought of flowers growing through him, he couldn’t defy the moss, which had spread from the boulder to his bones.

Moss … Of course, thought Echo, that’s why he was here, not to view the Incurables’ mortal remains. He sniffed the air once more. Yes, the smell of Toadmoss was growing steadily stronger.

Again he heard that low, throaty sound issuing from the depths of the forest. No doubt about it: Toadmoss and the author of the sound shared the same location. He walked on along the path, undistracted by the skeletons lying or sitting here and there. One Incurable was staring down at him from his perch in the fork of a large tree; another, who had presumably wanted to cut his sufferings short, was hanging by his neck from a branch.

One part of the forest consisted almost entirely of willow trees whose foliage, which resembled strands of pale-green hair, hung down to the ground. The smell of Toadmoss was now so intense that Echo caught it every time he drew breath. Mingled with it were other smells - unpleasant ones! - that prompted him to slacken his pace. Was that a clearing up ahead?

Although the sun had already set, the sky was still faintly tinged by its afterglow. The moon was three-quarters full. Echo came to a halt. Yes, it was a clearing. More than that, however, it was one of Nature’s marvels.

Jutting from the ground was a forest of tall slabs of stone. What kind of wood was it in which rocks grew instead of trees? It seemed unwise to approach them, but the smell of Toadmoss was coming from their direction. Having come this far, Echo wasn’t about to return without achieving anything.

He ventured a little nearer the slabs, which looked old and weather-worn. Many of them overgrown with creeper, they differed in shape and colour. Some were bigger, some smaller, some paler, some darker, some jet-black, others streaked with red and white veins. One slab was thick and composed of dark-brown porous stone, another was thin, with a white, mirror-smooth surface. Echo now saw that some of the slabs bore inscriptions. No, not just some, many - possibly all of them! This was becoming more and more mysterious. What was written on them?

He took a close look at one of the monoliths. Black marble. An engraved name. A date. Another date. The next bore another name, another date. He began to doubt that the rocks had grown here naturally. They had been embedded in the ground, but by whom? And when? Were they a work of art? A monument? An artefact from another age? He felt ashamed of his naivety in mistaking them for plants.

He read some more inscriptions. They always comprised names and dates. Some of the surnames were familiar to him from Malaisea. Many were emblazoned on the fascia boards of pharmacies and bakeries, opticians’ and butchers’ shops. And then he read one that affected him so deeply that he couldn’t suppress a sob:

FLORIA OF INGOTVILLE

It was the name of his former mistress.

Echo grasped the truth at last: this was a graveyard! He hadn’t recognised it at once because he’d never been to one before, only heard tell of such sinister places. The townsfolk of Malaisea had consigned their burial place to the depths of the forest because they couldn’t endure the sight of it. They were too preoccupied with their ailments to tolerate a perpetual reminder of death, so they came here to bury their nearest and dearest, not to mourn them.

This was the kingdom of death. His late mistress’s mouldering corpse was down below, together with countless others. He now knew where the unpleasant smells were coming from: the ground itself.

He found it only too easy to imagine the dead breaking through the surface, as they had in Ghoolion’s story of the accursed vineyard, and grabbing him with a view to dragging him down into their damp, worm-infested world below ground. He must get out of here fast! He was still on the outskirts of the cemetery; he had only to turn and go.

But he stayed where he was. The smell of Toadmoss was stronger than ever. It was luring him straight into the stone forest.

What should he do? He shuffled irresolutely from paw to paw. Why should that confounded moss be growing in the middle of a cemetery, of all places? Why had that stupid Uggly failed to mention the fact? It wouldn’t have hurt her to give him a little prior warning.

On the other hand, would he have gone at all? Izanuela knew only too well what she was doing and what was better left unsaid. He pulled himself together. She wanted some Toadmoss and Toadmoss she should have. He had no wish to give her the satisfaction of calling him a scaredy-Crat. If she herself had crossed this graveyard unscathed, why shouldn’t he be able to do the same? He set off, heading for the heart of the burial place.

Many of the graves looked very old; others, judging by the look of the soil, had been dug not long ago. Here and there, empty graves without headstones awaited their future occupants. Rainwater had turned one of them into a big puddle whose surface reflected the moon. Echo shivered.

The stench of Toadmoss was now so strong that he must be getting very close. He took another few steps. Sure enough, the penetrating smell was coming from an open grave just ahead of him. He went up to the edge and peered into it.

Ensconced in the grave was a gigantic frog. Its dark-green body, which was covered with black warts, was so big that it occupied almost half the pit. Staring up at Echo with turbid yellow eyes, it opened its slimy mouth and uttered the throaty sound he’d already heard more than once.

‘A cat?’ the creature muttered to itself. ‘What’s a cat doing here?’

Echo took advantage of this to strike up a conversation. ‘I’m not a cat,’ he said, ‘I’m a Crat.’

‘You speak my language?’

‘Yes,’ said Echo. ‘My, you’re a frog and a half!’

‘You’re wrong there. I’m not a frog, I’m a toad.’

Echo’s head swam. If this was a toad, there probably wasn’t any Toadmoss here at all. He’d been following the smell of the toad, not the moss. That was logical. What smelt more like a toad than a toad?

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, thoroughly disconcerted. ‘I was looking for some Toadmoss. You smell so much like that plant, I thought -’

‘Wrong again,’ the toad broke in. ‘I don’t smell like Toadmoss, Toadmoss smells like me. There’s a subtle difference. This forest is called the Toadwoods, not the Toadmoss Woods.’

‘You’re right,’ Echo said politely. ‘I made a mistake, as I said.’

‘Wrong yet again. You didn’t.’

‘Didn’t I? How so?’

‘See this green stuff on my back? What do you think it is?’

‘You mean it’s …’

The toad nodded.

‘Toadmoss. The only Toadmoss growing in the Toadwoods.’

Echo didn’t know what to think. On the one hand he had found some Toadmoss at last; on the other it was growing on the back of a monstrous and rather vicious-looking creature residing in a grave. He had hoped to scrape some off a root somewhere, but it now looked as if obtaining the stuff would present certain problems.

‘You’d like some of my moss, is that it?’ asked the toad.

‘Yes indeed!’ said Echo, relieved that the monster had broached the subject itself.

‘No moss would be your loss, eh?’

Echo forced a laugh.

‘Sorry,’ said the toad, ‘I couldn’t resist that. It’s the only joke I know.’

‘That’s quite all right,’ said Echo. ‘I’m afraid it’s only too true. Without your moss I’m completely stumped. It’s a bit difficult to explain, but the long and the short of it is that unless I take some of your moss home I shall lose my life in the very near future.’

‘Oh,’ said the toad, ‘that’s sad. Is it for the old crone who keeps scraping it off my back?’

‘Exactly,’ said Echo. ‘You know her, then?’

‘I most certainly do. She always squirts some stuff up my nose before she scrapes it off. It makes me go all dizzy and my head swims for days afterwards. There’s absolutely no need for her to do that - I’d gladly give her the stuff of my own free will. I’m only too delighted when someone scrapes some off from time to time. It itches, that’s why, but I can’t tell her that because I can’t talk to her the way I can to you.’

‘I could drop her a hint,’ Echo said.

‘Would you?’

‘Of course. So you wouldn’t mind if I took a little of your moss?’

‘No, no,’ said the toad, ‘help yourself.’

‘You mean I can jump down on to your back?’

‘Well, I can’t scrape it off for you - I can’t reach the stuff myself.’ The toad looked over its shoulder and raised its short front legs with a tormented croak.

Echo debated with himself. The toad was big and ugly, but did that mean it was dangerous? It certainly didn’t make a devious impression. On the other hand, if you spotted a trap it ceased to be one. He grunted irresolutely.

‘What’s the matter?’ the toad demanded. ‘Changed your mind?’

What had he got to lose? He was under sentence of death in any case. His only means of extricating himself from his predicament was growing on the back of this warty monster. He leapt boldly into the grave.

‘Ah!’ the toad said blissfully. ‘That feels good. Would you mind marking time on the back of my neck for a while? I think I’m suffering from muscle cramp.’

The old creature smelt truly frightful at close range. Echo had landed plumb on its back between some huge warts and a clump of Toadmoss. He would have preferred to get the business over in double-quick time, but he didn’t want to seem discourteous, so he complied with the toad’s request.

‘Ah!’ it said again. ‘You’ve no idea how good that feels. What’s your name, by the way?’

‘Echo. And yours?’

‘Just Toad. I’m the only toad left in this forest, so any more names would be superfluous.’

‘I see,’ said Echo.

He stopped marking time.

‘I’d like to scrape off some of your moss now,’ he said, ‘if it’s all right with you.’

‘Of course,’ said the toad. ‘I’m wasting your precious time. Help yourself.’

Echo drew a deep breath and took a big bite of Toadmoss. He wrenched it off with his teeth, gagging despite himself. It tasted even more revolting than Izanuela’s tongue.

‘There,’ said the toad, ‘now you know what Toadmoss tastes like. Shall I tell you what I’d like to know?’

‘Mm?’ Echo said with his mouth full.

‘I’d like to know what a Crat tastes like.’

The toad opened its slimy jaws as wide as they would go and put out an enormous tongue at least three times the length of its body. Reaching back over its shoulder, the tongue wrapped itself round Echo and popped him into the creature’s gaping mouth, which promptly closed again - all within the bat of an eyelid.

Just as he had been when falling from the castle roof, Echo was far too astonished to feel scared. ‘Ghoolion’s going to be mighty disappointed,’ was the only thought that occurred to him.

But the toad didn’t swallow him.

It opened its mouth and extended its tongue, Echo and all. Having deposited him on the edge of the grave, the creature retracted it again.

‘You taste of absolutely nothing,’ it observed in a reproachful voice.

‘The Leathermice said that too,’ Echo thought dazedly. He was covered in toad slobber from head to foot, but he still had the Toadmoss in his mouth.

‘So I haven’t been missing anything,’ said the toad. ‘I apologise, my friend. Don’t take it personally, it was only an experiment.’

Echo retreated a few steps for safety’s sake.

‘Best of luck with that moss!’ he heard the toad call. ‘And look in on me again some time. I could use a massage like that occasionally. It would be nice to see you again.’

Echo turned and made his way out of the forest as fast as his paws would carry him.

Alchemy and Ugglimy


‘Now the Alchemist’s away

I’m at liberty to play,

and shall now, for good or ill,

bend his spirits to my will.

Having marked his words and ways

carefully these many days,

ready to perform am I

miracles of alchemy.’



The old poem by Aleisha Wimpersleak, which Izanuela was now reciting, could not have been more appropriate to the occasion. Echo had returned to the Uggly’s house late that night to assist her in preparing the love potion.

‘Copious streams of sweat shall flow

from my overheated brow,

as I brew the magic broth

that will help me plight my troth,’



said Echo, who had been reminded of another poem.

‘Ah!’ Izanuela exclaimed. ‘You’re familiar with the Zamonian classics, I see. That was from “Love Soup” by Wamilli Swordthrow, wasn’t it? We’re really getting into the swing of things! There’s nothing more essential to Ugglimical potion-brewing than sympathetic vibrations.’

They were standing beside the distillation plant in the secret underground garden, where Izanuela had installed an apparatus quite the equal of any in Ghoolion’s laboratory. Echo jumped up on to the big table by way of a chair. Translucent coloured liquids - green, yellow, red, orange, blue and violet - were standing or bubbling away in glass balloons. The vessels were linked by thin tubes of copper, silver or glass, and methane-fed flames were burning brightly. Echo was surprised to see a pair of bellows pumping away steadily, apparently under its own power.

‘It contains earthworms in peat,’ Izanuela explained in a low voice. ‘It pays to harness the energy of Mother Earth. By the way, thanks for the Leyden Manikin formula. I’ve already animated one. We’ll be able to test the efficacy of the love potion on it.’

The Leyden Manikin was seated in a big-bellied flask, apathetically dabbling its feet in nutrient fluid. Echo took little notice of the creature, being far too eager to inspect Izanuela’s apparatus. He darted here, there and everywhere, sniffing and marvelling. Violets and rose petals were floating in pale-pink liquid, clumps of eelgrass waving around in alcohol. Some treacly dark-green substance was bubbling over a Bunsen burner. The air was filled with a smell reminiscent of flower gardens in springtime and stormy nights in the jungle, poppies and freshly mown grass, intoxicating orchids and poisonous tropical fungi, roses in full bloom, lemon balm and rosemary, fresh peat and wet straw.

Incandescent red Lava Worms wriggled along a spiral glass tube, heating up a flask in which a solution of chlorophyll was simmering. A column of big, black soldier ants marched across the table, transporting fragments of leaves and roots to a mortar. Stag beetles dragged whole flower heads over to a copper and dropped them in.

‘I see we’ve got plenty of busy little assistants,’ Echo remarked.

‘Oh,’ Izanuela said dismissively, ‘they’re just being neighbourly - paying me back for pinching my sugar and eating my spinach.’

The roots growing out of the floor and walls were unusually animated. The eyes in the knotholes kept opening and shutting as if aware that some crucial event was in the offing. For the first time, Echo took a closer look at the colourful butterflies fluttering through the subterranean vegetation.

‘What are all these butterflies doing down here?’ he asked when one of them settled on his head.

‘Generating atmosphere,’ said Izanuela, tossing a handful of pollen into the air. ‘Can you imagine brewing a love potion without any butterflies around? I can’t.’

‘You’ve really thought of everything,’ Echo said admiringly. ‘When does the balloon go up?’

‘Soon,’ she said. ‘I’ve still got to regulate my hop dispenser.’ She adjusted the control knobs on a big wooden box in which something was rumbling around and banging against the sides. ‘There,’ she exclaimed, clapping her hands. ‘All we need now is some twitchstik.’

‘Music?’ Echo translated.

The weird, rhythmical humming he’d heard on his first visit to the Uggly’s house started up again. He now realised that its source was the house itself, the roots and vegetation all around them.

‘The Song of the Ugglian Oaks,’ Izanuela said enthusiastically. ‘There’s nothing better.’ She put a jar on the table. At once, the Twitching Terebinth inside it began to sway ecstatically to and fro in time to the music. The Leyden Manikin also came to life. It stood up and started drumming on the side of its glass container.

‘Atmosphere is all!’ cried Izanuela. ‘Now let’s get down to work.’

She took various flasks filled with liquid from beneath the table and put them down beside a small cast-iron saucepan.

‘First we must dispense the vegetable essences in the correct quantities,’ she said.

‘Have they been chattified?’ Echo asked sternly.

‘With a vengeance,’ Izanuela replied with a grin. ‘More chattified than them you can’t get.’

She added minute amounts of the essences to the saucepan, consulting her Ugglimical Cookbook as she did so.

‘One ugg of Gristlethorn … two uggs of Treacletuft … five uggs of Clubfoot Toadstool … twenty-four uggs of Twelve-Leafed Clover … Yes, we can use some good luck …’

‘Why so little?’ Echo put in. ‘Why not tip the lot in? The more the merrier, no?’

‘Keep out of this!’ Izanuela hissed. ‘It’s over your head. Everything depends on the correct dosage. One ugg too many or too few and it’s completely ruined, so don’t distract me!’

Echo bit his tongue.

‘Eighteen uggs of Arctic Woodbine … two uggs of Old Man’s Scurf … four-and-a-half uggs of Pond Scum … one ugg of Sparrowspit … two uggs of Funnelhorn … one hundred and seventy-one uggs of Tuberous Stinkwort …’

And so it went on until all the essences had been added in the quantities prescribed. Izanuela placed the saucepan over a low flame and suspended a thermometer from the rim. ‘Now we heat it to exactly seventy-seven uggs,’ she said. ‘It mustn’t boil under any circumstances!’

‘What is an ugg?’ Echo asked.

‘An ugg can equate to a gramme or a degree - sometimes to a millimetre. It all depends,’ said Izanuela. ‘Why?’

‘Oh, nothing,’ said Echo. Having already gained the impression that Ugglimy wasn’t a particularly exact science, he was now, for the first time, struck by the disturbing thought that Izanuela might merely be blinding him with science.

‘Seventy-seven uggs on the button,’ she muttered after a glance at the thermometer. She consulted the cookbook again. ‘Now for the infusion of Witch’s Purslane.’ She produced a big, rusty syringe from a cupboard and went over to a glass container. Once there, she froze. The syringe hit the ground with a clatter.

‘By all the … Oh, no!’ she exclaimed.

Echo hurried over to her. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked anxiously.

‘The Witch’s Purslane essence,’ she groaned, ‘it’s gone off. How could that have happened?’

The liquid in the glass container looked brackish and slimy. Fat bubbles of gas were rising to the surface, on which limp, greenish-brown leaves floated like victims of drowning. The rhythmical music ceased.

‘Oh dear,’ Izanuela wailed, ‘I turned off the filter by mistake and left it overnight. The essence has become polluted.’

‘So?’ said Echo. ‘It’s only a salad vegetable. I’m sure you can get some more.’

‘That’s just it. This was a very rare variety from a farm on Paw Island. Have you any idea how far away that is? It would take a week to get hold of another batch and by then the other essences would have lost their potency. Don’t you understand? This is the moment to brew the potion. Here, today, tonight! It’s now or never! Damnation!’ She thumped the glass container.

Echo feverishly searched his knowledge of alchemy for a solution. ‘What is in the plant?’ he asked.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘nothing special, really. Iron, zinc, alkaloids - the stuff plants usually contain. But this was Witch’s Purslane and it contained an exceptionally effective kind of mucilago. That’s a gum designed to bind the ingredients of our potion tightly together. It’s like a soufflé, my young friend. Unless you follow the recipe exactly …’ Izanuela subsided weakly on to a chair.

Gastropoda, Echo heard the Alchemaster saying. Fossaria modicella. Radix auriculata. Stagnicola caperata. Aplexa elongata. Physella vigata. Gyraulus deflectus. Planorbula trivolvis. Planorbula armigera …

‘Planorbula armigera!’ he exclaimed.

‘What?’

‘It’s a snail. A very rare one.’

‘What about it?’

‘Ghoolion rendered one down and preserved its fat.’

‘Well?’

‘The fat of Planorbula armigera contains remnants of the slime the snail excretes and leaves behind it, and this slime has the same chemical composition as mucilago.’

The Uggly looked astonished. ‘How do you know that?’

‘It’s part of the alchemical knowledge Ghoolion has been drumming into this.’ Echo raised a forepaw and tapped his head.

‘Off you go, then!’ cried Izanuela. ‘Run back to the castle and fetch some of this snail fat. In the meantime, I’ll -’

‘No can do,’ said Echo.

‘Why not?’

‘There are several locks on the door of the cellar where the fat is stored. I can’t get them open by myself.’

Izanuela rose from her chair and drew herself up. ‘Oh, no,’ she said, folding her arms, ‘not again. Count me out.’

‘I went into the Toadwoods all by myself,’ said Echo, ‘and you didn’t warn me about the toad. You owe me one.’

‘No, I don’t!’ she said defiantly.

‘They’re pretty sophisticated locks,’ Echo said thoughtfully, ‘but we should be able to open them between the two of us.’

The Uggly had fallen silent.

‘Have you forgotten what you said just now? “This is the moment to brew the potion. Here, today, tonight! It’s now or never!”’

Izanuela groaned.

‘“Copious streams of sweat shall flow from my overheated brow …”’ Echo reprised.

‘Yes, yes,’ she groaned again, ‘“as I brew the magic broth that will help me plight my troth!”’

‘That’s the spirit,’ said Echo. ‘Do you by any chance have a flute in the house? And a picklock? We’ll be needing a candle, too.’

The Burglary


Having satisfied himself that the Alchemaster was busy in his laboratory, Echo hurried back to the castle entrance, where Izanuela was already waiting for him. Then they set off for the cellars.

‘There’s something else I should tell you,’ Echo whispered as they were creeping down the long, dark stairs.

‘What’s that?’

‘There’s a Snow-White Widow down there.’

The Uggly stopped short. ‘He’s got a Snow-White Widow?’ she hissed. ‘In the cellars?’

‘She’s shut up in a glass cage.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I’ve seen her.’

‘That’s very reassuring. Thanks for telling me, I feel much better now.’

‘It’s all right, we won’t be going anywhere near her,’ Echo whispered. ‘She’s in a remote part of the cellars.’

Izanuela reluctantly continued to descend the stairs. ‘A Snow-White Widow on top of everything else!’ she grumbled. ‘A few days ago I was leading a peaceful Ugglian existence. A client would occasionally complain that one of my predictions hadn’t come true, but that was the worst that could happen. Now I’m breaking into Ghoolion’s castle and working on a love potion. I steal plants, I almost fall to my death, I break one regulation after another, I risk my life as well as my fortune teller’s licence. And who am I doing all this for? A stray Crat. Can you give me one good reason why I should?’

They had reached the foot of the stairs.

‘We need some light,’ said Echo.

Izanuela lit the candle she had brought with her. To Echo, the dark, vaulted ceilings looked as menacing and close to collapse as they had the first time. He had never thought he would pay another visit to this loathsome part of the castle, still less of his own volition.

They made their way in silence through the series of underground chambers, which teemed with insects that shunned the light of their candle. Echo couldn’t help recalling Ghoolion’s memorable account of the ancient building’s gruesome history, but he refrained from sharing it with the Uggly, who strangely kept a bridle on her tongue for once. Whether this was because of their oppressive surroundings or the Alchemaster’s proximity, he couldn’t tell. It was probably a mixture of both - of awe and unrequited love - that had reduced Izanuela to silence. When they came to the door of the fat store, as they eventually did, she shone the candle on its numerous padlocks.

‘The one at the top is an acoustico-elemental lock,’ Echo said in a whisper, although no one could possibly have heard him. ‘That’s probably the hardest.’

‘Oh, I know those things of old,’ Izanuela said with a grin. ‘The Grailsund University authorities used one to secure the door of the room in which they kept their coveted Ugglimical diplomas. They’re child’s play to open.’

‘Just a minute,’ said Echo. ‘Are you telling me you stole your diploma?’

Izanuela blushed furiously. ‘Whoops!’ she said. ‘It just slipped out.’

‘I won’t tell anyone,’ Echo promised, ‘but only if you get that thing open.’

‘If you recite the correct names of the elements in the correct order - and you must know them if he opened the lock in your presence - it’s quite simple.’

Echo whispered the names in her ear.

‘Bismuth, niobium, antimony!’ cried Izanuela, and the lock sprang open.

‘Hey,’ said Echo, ‘how did you do that? The words kept getting twisted up on my tongue.’

‘The trick is to use your tongue to rearrange the individual syllables,’ she said. ‘I expect you remember what a talented tongue I have, don’t you?’ She extended the long green thing in question and Echo gave a reminiscent shudder.

‘Oh dear,’ she said, rattling the next padlock, ‘this is a numerical lock. I’ve no head for figures.’

‘This one’s mine,’ said Echo. ‘I made a note of the numerals Ghoolion spoke into it. Eighteen … twelve … six hundred and sixty-six … four thousand one hundred and two … seventeen million eight hundred and eighty-eight thousand five hundred and sixty-four …’

He reeled off the long series of numerals effortlessly. The padlock sprang open just as he finished.

‘You really do have a fabulous memory,’ Izanuela said admiringly. ‘You could make money out of it. Me, I can hardly remember my own birthday.’

‘Ghoolion used an invisible key for the next lock,’ Echo recalled. ‘Where are we going to get an invisible key?’

‘No need. Pedlars sell them to gullible yokels at country fairs. They’re rubbish. The key is invisible so no one can see it only has two wards, that’s all. I’ll get it open with the picklock.’

She produced the burglar’s tool from her cloak and poked around in the padlock. It sprang open almost at once.

‘Great,’ said Echo. ‘Now we need the flute. The next one is an unmusical lock made of cacophonated steel.’

‘Child’s play,’ Izanuela said scornfully. She brought out the flute and played exactly the same discordant notes as Ghoolion. The padlock opened by itself.

‘Well, I never!’ Echo exclaimed. ‘How come you knew that frightful tune? I thought you’d have to toot away for ages.’

‘It wasn’t hard to guess,’ said Izanuela. ‘Ghoolion has given me earache more than once by playing that tune. It’s his favourite way of tormenting Ugglies.’

She applied herself to the next lock. ‘Hm,’ she muttered. ‘A Florinthian shamlock with triple tumblers. This is another kettle of fish altogether.’ Methodically, she set to work with the skeleton key and had it open within minutes.

‘Wow!’ said Echo. ‘Where did you learn to do that?’

‘Listen, my friend,’ Izanuela said sombrely, fixing him with the piercing gaze that had unnerved him once before, ‘I’m an Uggly. My sisters and I belong to a downtrodden race. People have always found fault with us. Once upon a time they used to lock us up or put us in the stocks - in fact they even burned us at the stake, although no one likes to mention that nowadays. Over the centuries, we were forced to acquire certain skills that aren’t in full conformity with the laws of Zamonia. Picking locks is the most innocuous of them. Now … Do you want me to get this door open, or would you prefer to go on asking stupid questions?’

‘All right,’ said Echo, thoroughly intimidated, ‘I’ll keep quiet.’

The Uggly gave him another piercing stare and went back to work. Sometimes she manipulated the picklock, sometimes she used a hairpin or a piece of wire conjured from the depths of her cloak. Padlock after padlock yielded to her deft touch.

‘That’s it,’ she said when the last one sprang open. ‘The way is clear.’

They entered the fat cellar. It was as dry, cool, clean and tidy as it had been the first time. The Alchemaster’s balls of fat were neatly arrayed in long rows.

‘This’, Echo said as he walked past the shelves, ‘is where Ghoolion stores the fat and the death rattles of the rare animals he tortures and renders down. How do you feel about him now you’ve seen this place?’

Izanuela sighed. ‘That’s the trouble with feelings,’ she said. ‘They’re hard to reconcile with common sense. Believe me, I’m just as horrified by Ghoolion as you are. I’d really sooner poison him than brew him a love potion, but what can I do?’ She cast her eyes up at the ceiling.

Echo read out the names on the labels: ‘Porphyrio veterum … Numida meleagris … Python molurus … Nyctibius grandis … Stenops gracilis … Moloch horridus … Testacella halotidea. Ah, here are the snails! And there it is: Planorbula armigera!’

Izanuela snatched the ball of fat and stowed it in her cloak.

‘What if he notices it’s gone?’ she asked.

‘He’s far too busy at present to count his balls of fat, and even if he did, what …’

Echo broke off. His sensitive ears had alerted him to something.

‘What is it?’ asked Izanuela.

‘Ghoolion’s coming!’ Echo could definitely hear the clatter of his iron-shod feet.

‘Then let’s get out of here, quick!’ Izanuela’s convulsive movements suggested that she was trying to run in all directions at once.

‘Too late! He’ll be here in no time.’

‘What shall we do?’ Izanuela whispered anxiously. ‘What on earth shall we do?’

‘We’ll simply have to hide.’

‘But he’ll see there’s been a break-in. The open padlocks! He’ll search the place.’

‘Leave it to me,’ Echo said. ‘I’ve had an idea. Get down behind that cupboard and keep still. And blow out that candle.’

Izanuela complied. She too could now hear Ghoolion’s footsteps. Echo groped his way to the back of the cellar and crouched down in a corner just as Ghoolion appeared in the doorway. The cellar was suddenly bathed in multicoloured light by the will-o’-the-wisp lantern in his hand.

‘Who’s there?’ he called sternly. ‘Who has been suicidal enough to break into my cellar?’

There was a moment’s absolute silence. Echo’s heart was racing. At last he plucked up all his courage.

‘It’s only little me, Master,’ he called jauntily. ‘Echo.’

He emerged into the light of Ghoolion’s lantern.

‘What are you doing down here?’ the Alchemaster demanded sharply. ‘How did you get those locks open?’

‘What, me open them?’ Echo sounded mystified. ‘I’m only a little Crat. The door was wide open when I got here.’

‘It was open?’ said Ghoolion. He looked dumbfounded.

‘How else could I have got in? I thought you’d left it open for me, the way you do the door to the roof.’

Ghoolion seemed to lose his balance for a moment. He lurched sideways, swinging the lantern to and fro.

‘I must have forgotten to lock up,’ he muttered. ‘I’m thoroughly overworked, I suppose.’

‘I know you are,’ said Echo. ‘I hardly ever see you these days.’

The Alchemaster gave a sudden start. His face stiffened.

‘You didn’t answer my question,’ he said sharply. ‘What are you doing down here? I thought you were afraid of these cellars.’

Echo sighed. ‘Oh, nobody with a future as limited as mine wastes time on silly phobias. An idea occurred to me recently, while I was paying my first visit to the Toadwoods. I don’t know what you propose to do with my remains once you’ve boiled off the fat, but one thing’s for sure: I don’t want to be buried there.’

Ghoolion lowered the lantern.

‘I see,’ he said. ‘In that case, where?’

‘Well, this cellar is a nice, cool, clean place. The insects and rats can’t get in, and if my fat is going to be stored here anyway, I thought …’ Echo broke off.

‘You want to be buried down here?’ asked Ghoolion.

‘Yes, in a manner of speaking. If it isn’t too much trouble, you could stuff me like those mummies of yours. Then you’d have a nice memento of me and I wouldn’t be so completely cut off from the rest of the world.’

Ghoolion grinned. ‘Oh, is that all? You’re going to make a pretty demanding corpse. Anything else?’

‘Yes, there is,’ said Echo, ‘while we’re on the subject. I’d like you to put me in a particular spot. Would you mind coming with me?’

He now had to lure the old man further into the cellar so that the Uggly could sneak out behind his back.

‘The thing is,’ he said, leading the way, ‘I wouldn’t want to be on display among the balls of fat extracted from loathsome creatures like Throttlesnakes or Spiderwitches, or whatever they’re called.’

‘That’s understandable,’ said Ghoolion.

Glancing over his shoulder, Echo saw Izanuela emerge from her hiding place and tiptoe towards the door. He could imagine how terrified she was.

‘I’d like to be displayed back here beside the elements,’ he went on, ‘in a nice, dignified position.’

‘I think that could be arranged,’ Ghoolion said.

‘I’ve already chosen a spot: here, just beside the zamonium.’

Ghoolion gave another grin. ‘You want to be displayed beside the zamonium? Not a very modest request.’

‘But not presumptuous either, I hope. You told me yourself what an important role my fat is going to play in the development of Zamonian alchemy, so I thought, well …’

Echo was doing his utmost to prevent the old man from looking in Izanuela’s direction. He spoke as loudly as possible to drown any telltale sounds.

‘Well,’ Ghoolion repeated magnanimously, ‘I think that could be arranged. It’s not without a certain logic.’

Echo glanced over his shoulder again. The Uggly’s backside was just disappearing round the doorpost. Now he could relax. He would have to detain Ghoolion a little longer, that was all. He could picture Izanuela hurrying back along the underground passages, panting and sweating and cursing him under her breath. He hoped she would take good care of the stolen ball of fat.

‘Did you know’, he asked, ‘that there’s a monstrous great toad living in a grave in the Toadwoods and that it’s the last of its kind?’