Moers - Rumo and His Miraculous Adventures

The 13 Lives of Captain Bluebear

The City of Dreaming Books

A Wild Ride through the Night

The Alchemasters Apprentice

My thanks to Wolfgang Ferchl, Oliver Schmitt,

Rainer Wieland and, of course, Elvira,

without whose selfless assistance

none of the Zamonia books could have been written.

This edition first published in the United States in 2006 by

The Overlook Press, Peter Mayer Publishers, Inc.

New York

NEW YORK:

141 Wooster Street

New York, NY 10012

Copyright Piper Verlag GmbH, Mnchen 2003

Translation copyright 2004 John Brownjohn

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or

transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,

including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval

system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the

publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection

with a review written for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, or broadcast.

ISBN: 978-1-46830-790-0

Imagine a chest of drawers!

Yes, a big chest with lots of drawers

containing all the marvels and mysteries of Zamonia

arranged in alphabetical order.

A chest of drawers floating in absolute darkness.

Can you imagine that?

Good, now watch: one of those drawers is opening!

The one bearing the letter R.

R for Rumo.

And now look inside deep inside, before it shuts again.

was good at fighting.

At the beginning of his story, however, he still had no inkling of this, nor did he know that he was a Wolperting and would one day become Zamonias most illustrious hero. He had no name, nor did he have the faintest recollection of his parents. He didnt know where he came from or where he would go. All he knew was that the farmyard where he grew up was his kingdom.

For Rumo, each day began when the farmers entire family, seven Hackonian dwarfs, formed a doting circle around the sleeping puppys basket and woke him with a melodious Hackonian song. Then they showered him with caresses. They tickled him behind the ears, rocked him in their arms, stroked his fur and kissed his tiny horns marks of affection which he acknowledged with a pleasurable grunt. Wherever Rumo tottered on his four clumsy little legs, he instantly became the centre of attention. All his activities were applauded. He was even fondled and tickled for tripping over his own paws. The Hackonians set aside the freshest milk for him, barbecued him the most succulent sausages, reserved him the coolest place in the shade and the warmest place beside the stove. They went around on tiptoe when he was having his afternoon rest and regaled him with apple pie and whipped cream when he yawningly awoke. There were always volunteers ready to romp with Rumo or allow him to bite them with his toothless gums. And at night, when he had tired himself out with play, they groomed his fur with a soft brush and sang him to sleep. Yes, Rumo was the uncrowned king of the farmyard.

There were many other animals on the farm. The dairy cows, horses and pigs were all much bigger and stronger and more useful than Rumo, but none enjoyed the same popularity. The only creature that failed to acknowledge his supremacy was a black, long-necked goose twice his size, which hissed malevolently whenever he ventured too close, so he gave her as wide a berth as possible.

O ne morning Rumo was awakened in his basket, not by the Hackonians melodious singing but by a sharp pain. There was a strange sensation in his mouth. The interior normally felt like a wet, slimy cave in which his tongue glided over soft, smooth, rounded shapes, but it had now acquired a new and alarming feature. In his upper jaw, just inside the upper lip, the gum had gone taut and something sharp seemed to be growing beneath it. This was the source of the throbbing pain Rumo found so disagreeable. He decided to invite due sympathy and caresses by informing a wider public of his condition.

But there was no one around. He would have to toil across to the barn, where the Hackonians were usually engaged at this hour for reasons Rumo found unfathomable in tossing hay around with pitchforks. Experience had taught him that the route to the barn was fraught with difficulty. Through the kitchen, across the veranda with its menacing splinters, down the steps, across the muddy farmyard, past the stupid goose, round the drinking trough, which was always surrounded by pig dung it was a wearisome trip, and Rumo preferred to undertake it in the arms of one of the farmers children. If only he didnt have to go down on all fours and trip over his own paws in the process! How lovely it would be if he could walk on two legs like the Hackonians!

Rumo climbed out of his basket, planted his hind legs on the floor and straightened up with a groan. He swayed first to the right, then to the left, and finally stood straight as an arrow. Hey, it was easy!

He set off, striding along like a grown-up Hackonian. He was filled with pride, a novel and inspiring sensation. Without stumbling once, he plodded all the way across the kitchen, pushed open the door, which was ajar, and even managed to descend the four veranda steps. Then he marched off across the farmyard. The morning sun warmed his fur, the air felt cool and refreshing. Rumo drew a deep breath, put his forepaws on his hips and walked past the black goose, which he now matched in height. She backed away, staring at him in astonishment, and started to hiss something nasty, but she was too flabbergasted to get it out. Rumo didnt spare the bird a glance; he simply strode on, feeling bigger and more pleased with himself than ever before.

Rumo paused to enjoy the warmth of the sunlight on his fur. He blinked in the dazzling glare and shut his eyes, and there it was again, the world he saw whenever he did this. It was a world of smells that floated and flickered before his inner eye in hundreds of different colours: thin, fluttering wisps of red, yellow, green and blue light. The green light was given off by the luxuriant rosemary bush growing right beside him, the yellow by the delicious lemon cakes being baked in the kitchen, the red by the smoke of the smouldering compost heap, the blue by the cool morning breeze, which was laden with the tangy scent of the nearby ocean. And there were many, many more colours, some of them dirty and ugly like the brown of the dung in which the pig was wallowing. What really astonished Rumo, however, was a colour he had never smelt before. High above all these terrestrial scents floated a silver ribbon. It was thin and delicate no more than a thread, in fact but he could clearly see it with his inner eye.

Rumo was overcome by a strangely restless feeling, a vague and unprecedented yearning to leave everything behind and set off into the blue on his own. He involuntarily drew a deep breath and shivered, so strong and splendid was the feeling that arose within him. Deep in his childish little heart Rumo sensed that, if he used this silver thread of scent as a guide and followed it to its source, happiness would await him there.