Read Online A Wild Ride Through The Night by Walter Moers - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Walter Moers
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again.
‘What do you mean?’ Gustave tried to say, but his tongue had almost gone on strike. The bird doubled, trebled and quadrupled under his bleary gaze, assuming a variety of colours as it did so: first pink, then red, then purple.
‘I meant what I said:
You’re already on the way
!’ croaked the bird’s metallic voice. A rattling sound made itself heard. Gustave wondered why it sounded familiar. Of course! It was the sound of carriage wheels turning briskly, mingled with the crunch of gravel and the thud of baggage landing on the roof.
Baggage? On what sort of roof? Here in the forest? There! A trumpet! No, a huntsman’s horn. More like it, but still wrong. Of course, it was a ship’s foghorn! Fog? A ship? In the Forest of Evil Spirits? Was he dreaming? Then came a whistling sound. No, that was no bird, it was a stationmaster’s whistle.
‘Can you hear it too?’ asked Gustave, afraid he might be losing his mind. His speech, too, was slurred.
The bird grinned again.
‘No, but I know what you mean. It’s the
Wanderlust Wine
that does it—look.’ The bird held out its beaker, and Gustave felt as if he were gazing into a whirlpool of blood. Contrary to every law of nature, the dark red liquid was rotating in a foaming spiral, the very sight of which gave him vertigo.
‘Wanderlust Wine?’ he repeated.
‘Yes,’ the bird confided in an undertone. ‘Life is a journey! Perilous, unpredictable and full of surprises, even if you spend it sitting in an armchair without ever budging from the spot.’ The creature emitted a hoarse laugh. ‘Yes, that’s Wanderlust Wine for you,’ it croaked. ‘Specially brewed for you at Death’s expense.’
‘What!’ Gustave cried. ‘You mean you’re servants of Death?’
The bird raised its beaker in salute. A few other forest demons followed suit. ‘Aren’t we all?’ they chorused.
‘But you’re immortal, surely?’ said Gustave.
‘So what?’ The bird grinned. ‘There’s no reason why we shouldn’t do Death an occasional favour.’
Gustave felt dizzy again. Yellow and green will-o’-the-wisps darted around in front of his nose, tying themselves in such intricate knots that they made him squint. He shut his eyes and instantly felt better. Whoops! He experienced a jolt of the kind you feel on board a train as it pulls out of the station.
A cool breeze fanned his face, as if he were sitting on the coachman’s seat of a speeding carriage-and-four. Next he was engulfed by the metallic rumble and roar of a locomotive thundering through a tunnel at full steam ahead. Then, suddenly, he seemed to be on the deck of a ship with wind swirling about him and canvas flapping.
He still didn’t dare to open his eyes; on the contrary, he kept them tightly shut and relied on his other senses. It was as though the odours of exotic lands were wafting past his nostrils: cinnamon, nutmeg, coriander, lemon grass, the scents of the jungle, the fragrance of orchids. He heard people speaking in different tongues, oriental music, high-pitched, singsong voices, a glockenspiel, the rhythmical thudding of drums, hands clapping, feet pounding, and—once more—wheels rattling over cobblestones, locomotives hissing, sailcloth flapping, hoofs clattering.
He opened his eyes at last.
The forest had vanished, and with it the inebriated bird and its frightful companions. Gustave was in the midst of a raging inferno of light and darkness. Day followed night at one-second intervals, as if the earth were rotating a thousand times faster than usual. Unfolding beneath him at breakneck speed were asphalted high-ways, broad avenues, sandy tracks, narrow paths. Mountains and whole landscapes sped past—steppes, deserts, rippling cornfields— as if some immense hand were towing him round the planet upside down. Clouds gathered and dispersed at an incredible rate. Time seemed to stand still inside Gustave while racing past him more wildly than ever. He felt sick and giddy. Unable to
‘What do you mean?’ Gustave tried to say, but his tongue had almost gone on strike. The bird doubled, trebled and quadrupled under his bleary gaze, assuming a variety of colours as it did so: first pink, then red, then purple.
‘I meant what I said:
You’re already on the way
!’ croaked the bird’s metallic voice. A rattling sound made itself heard. Gustave wondered why it sounded familiar. Of course! It was the sound of carriage wheels turning briskly, mingled with the crunch of gravel and the thud of baggage landing on the roof.
Baggage? On what sort of roof? Here in the forest? There! A trumpet! No, a huntsman’s horn. More like it, but still wrong. Of course, it was a ship’s foghorn! Fog? A ship? In the Forest of Evil Spirits? Was he dreaming? Then came a whistling sound. No, that was no bird, it was a stationmaster’s whistle.
‘Can you hear it too?’ asked Gustave, afraid he might be losing his mind. His speech, too, was slurred.
The bird grinned again.
‘No, but I know what you mean. It’s the
Wanderlust Wine
that does it—look.’ The bird held out its beaker, and Gustave felt as if he were gazing into a whirlpool of blood. Contrary to every law of nature, the dark red liquid was rotating in a foaming spiral, the very sight of which gave him vertigo.
‘Wanderlust Wine?’ he repeated.
‘Yes,’ the bird confided in an undertone. ‘Life is a journey! Perilous, unpredictable and full of surprises, even if you spend it sitting in an armchair without ever budging from the spot.’ The creature emitted a hoarse laugh. ‘Yes, that’s Wanderlust Wine for you,’ it croaked. ‘Specially brewed for you at Death’s expense.’
‘What!’ Gustave cried. ‘You mean you’re servants of Death?’
The bird raised its beaker in salute. A few other forest demons followed suit. ‘Aren’t we all?’ they chorused.
‘But you’re immortal, surely?’ said Gustave.
‘So what?’ The bird grinned. ‘There’s no reason why we shouldn’t do Death an occasional favour.’
Gustave felt dizzy again. Yellow and green will-o’-the-wisps darted around in front of his nose, tying themselves in such intricate knots that they made him squint. He shut his eyes and instantly felt better. Whoops! He experienced a jolt of the kind you feel on board a train as it pulls out of the station.
A cool breeze fanned his face, as if he were sitting on the coachman’s seat of a speeding carriage-and-four. Next he was engulfed by the metallic rumble and roar of a locomotive thundering through a tunnel at full steam ahead. Then, suddenly, he seemed to be on the deck of a ship with wind swirling about him and canvas flapping.
He still didn’t dare to open his eyes; on the contrary, he kept them tightly shut and relied on his other senses. It was as though the odours of exotic lands were wafting past his nostrils: cinnamon, nutmeg, coriander, lemon grass, the scents of the jungle, the fragrance of orchids. He heard people speaking in different tongues, oriental music, high-pitched, singsong voices, a glockenspiel, the rhythmical thudding of drums, hands clapping, feet pounding, and—once more—wheels rattling over cobblestones, locomotives hissing, sailcloth flapping, hoofs clattering.
He opened his eyes at last.
The forest had vanished, and with it the inebriated bird and its frightful companions. Gustave was in the midst of a raging inferno of light and darkness. Day followed night at one-second intervals, as if the earth were rotating a thousand times faster than usual. Unfolding beneath him at breakneck speed were asphalted high-ways, broad avenues, sandy tracks, narrow paths. Mountains and whole landscapes sped past—steppes, deserts, rippling cornfields— as if some immense hand were towing him round the planet upside down. Clouds gathered and dispersed at an incredible rate. Time seemed to stand still inside Gustave while racing past him more wildly than ever. He felt sick and giddy. Unable to
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