Gamer Fantastic

by Greenberg, Martin H.

  Bachan hesitated. “I do not come from wealth, though my family has an honorable history. I seek genteel employment, but I find mocking faces everywhere, laughing at my attempts.”

  Ernest nodded, eager for more, but unwilling to press. “Do you see the same face repeatedly or many different ones?”

  “Many!” Bachan exclaimed. “They are beautiful women, but cruel. It is when I look on valuable items like jewels in a goldsmith’s window. I want them, but my poverty chides me. I seem to see glowing eyes looking back at me. I am torn inside by sharp teeth. They leer at me, strike at me, and worst of all, whisper into the ears of potential employers who, though they seemed willing enough to speak to me in the beginning, always have polite regrets at the end of our interview.”

  “I see,” Ernest said. Bachan’s description struck a chord in his memory. He picked up the daybook that sat on the table beside him and started to thumb through it. The other youth, Herr Dagen, leaned over to read the neat script.

  “ ‘Red skin, horns, glowing eyes, sharp teeth . . . !’ What is that you have there?”

  “Devils.” Ernest smiled and turned it so he could see the entry the right way up.“Common experiences among many of my patients,” he said. “I am compiling a manual of the monsters they see as the embodiment of their fears. Not surprisingly, many of these descriptions have images in common. I have yet to determine whether they are a product of our cultural past or if the creatures have a reality beyond a physical nature. Some are inescapably based upon things we all have seen. Under ‘Ogre,’ you will find that all of those who described it to me see it as eating children . . .” Ernest nodded eagerly, seeing his guests’ eyes light up. “Yes, you recognize the reference, don’t you? One of the ancient painted fountains in Bern has that very figure. But others are alike without having such an obvious common point of reference.”

  He turned over pages, feeling encouraged. “Herr Bachan, your fear made visible sounds to me like a fiend I know from classical mythology. These figures that you describe are like harpies, those creatures that tortured Phineas and would let him have none of the dainties given to him. How large were they? Can you estimate the height of your tormentors?”

  Bachan looked startled. “Why, I have no idea.”

  “If they are small, then why do you fear them?”

  “Well, because they are everywhere!”

  “You feel this sensation in every place you go where there is something you seek to have and cannot?” Ernest looked up to see the shabby youth nod and dipped his pen once again. “We must seek to find you the courage to fend off these . . . harpies. We need the correct weapons against them,” he said, fending off the inevitable protest. “My course of inquiry is not onerous, expensive, or embarrassing. I hope you may even consider it pleasant. Now, you, my friend Herr Dagen, you are reticent. Won’t you extend to me your trust, as your friend has done? We are private here in my study.”

  The moment he said the word trust, he knew what Dagen suffered from. The fashionably dressed youth looked as if he was ready to spring up and leave the room. Ernest countered by setting aside his pen and reaching for the crystal bottle of brandy on a tray at his elbow. He poured out a glass for Dagen and handed it to him before the young man could bolt. With a drink in his hand, politeness dictated he could not rush away. Ernest understood his unwillingness to open up. He had been injured in some fashion. There was no way to open that heart without a key consisting of similar openness.

  “Don’t speak yet. First I will tell you my own despair. I fight daily against a black dog, one as big as a winter wolf. No ordinary dog, this!” Ernest felt cold fingers at the back of his neck, and his skin crept. He never spoke of his own fear to anyone else, but for the sake of science, he forced himself to go on. “He slinks away from me around corners. I fear to follow him lest he tear out my very heart and leave me without hope. I thought I saw him lurking in the hall just now behind my dear friend Herr Dromlinn—but Dromlinn is a true friend and would never let him in here. It is when I am alone that I am most vulnerable to my black dog’s attack. Do you see? I, too, have need for my researches to be successful.”

  Dagen’s young face changed from doubt to sympathy. He lowered his gaze to the glass of brandy.

  “I fear the unknown, Herr Doctor. My uncle is a wealthy merchant. He would like me to become his agent to the Americas.” Dagen’s cheeks colored slightly. “I feel foolish admitting this, but I have seen the ancient maps of the Phoenicians. In that corner to which he would send me, the first cartographers wrote ‘here be dragons.’ It sounds childish even to say it, but in my mind there are such terrors. Giant serpents! Fish large enough to swallow a ship! It would be a wonderful opportunity—my entire family tells me I am an idiot to hesitate, but I am sure I will die if I go. Yet there is no basis for the fear. Men come from and go to the Americas every week.”

  Ernest nodded. “Your mind knows it, but your heart needs to be convinced. We must enable you to face that unknown. The trouble is, my young friends, that you have fallen into the role of victims of your terrors. I understand well how you suffer. It is difficult to change that without changing your perception.”

  “But how?” Bachan asked, his face full of woe.

  Ernest rose and placed his notes upon the table. “Come tomorrow afternoon, my friends, and I will essay to rid you of your fears. Will you trust me?”

  What could they do but agree? They departed, muttering bemusedly between them. Ernest could hardly wait until the door closed behind them. He was excited. Many subjects had visited his study, but never before had he had such perfect specimens for his experiment. He rushed back to his table and began to make note upon note, dipping the pen in the inkwell over and over. Ideas kept popping into his mind, faster than he could write. He exclaimed aloud over the ones that pleased him most.

  His maids brought him food that he scarcely tasted, so intent was he on his ideas. His concept was forming itself so perfectly that it could not fail. He would bring these two young men out of their despair. It would work. He would be able to present the results to the foundation and take his place in the pantheon of psychoanalysis alongside Freud and Jung.

  But about two o’clock in the morning, the black dog struck. The fire in the brass grate had died down to a few glowing embers that looked like eyes and gleaming red teeth. Instead of admiring his feat, Ernest was certain that his colleagues would ridicule him. He slammed his pen down and surveyed the pile of foolscap. How could such a ridiculous scenario flourish?

  “No, I won’t do it!” he shouted. “I’ll burn it! No one will ever see my stupidity!”

  He stood up and crushed the paper in a wad.

  But the word hope showed between his fingers from the topmost page. How could he take hope away from the young men who trusted him? He fought back his despair for their sake. He wanted to succeed. He craved it. Ernest sank back into his chair and put his face in his hands. The glowing eyes were hidden from sight. No, this was not right. What kind of psychologist was he if he could not reframe his own behavior? He stood up again and faced the red coals.

  I am not mad, he thought, picturing himself not in his modest tweed suit but in a tunic over chain mail. Not yet. Not while I wield the Torch of Truth, a brand of searing fire, and while I know the incantation against darkness.

  “I swear and affirm that I will follow the light to the truth. I will not stop, no matter what obstacles confront me. This I swear!” His voice rang off the plaster ceiling.

  The eyes in the fireplace seemed to dip in submission. He had vanquished the dog again.

  The image comforted him so much that he straightened each sheet of paper out meticulously and went on with his work. A coal on the fire broke in half with a loud report, and the flames blossomed again.

  He knew that his late night shouting made more than one neighbor threaten to call the authorities, deeming him mad. He was not mad. The identity he took on gave him comfort. He hoped to share that with his young subjects.<
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  Tapping woke him around noon. The maids tiptoed in and swept out the ashes of the night’s fire while his housekeeper ran hot water in the tub. A bath and a shave restored him nearer to confidence than he had been in so very long.

  After an excellent lunch for which he praised his cook highly, he awaited his guests with pleasure and scientific curiosity blazing.

  “Make believe will set you free,” he explained to Dagen and Bachan, handing them carefully written notes and a blank sheet of paper and a pencil apiece. “Your terrors are not imaginary, but they are in your heads. They have held sway over you for far too long, but tonight we will defeat them.”

  “But how?” Bachan asked. Dagen scanned the paper in his hand.

  “By leaving your old selves behind,” Ernest said. He tapped the document Bachan held. “You, my impecunious friend. Money has commanded your happiness. Therefore, be for tonight someone whom wealth cannot sway. You are a holy man. Read the details I have set down for you. Do not think of yourself as yourself, but step into the role I have given you. Use these rules to guide your actions. The light of goodness is a power in your hand.

  “You, my would-be merchant, be as the knights of old. Dragons may attack you, but you have armored and armed yourself in advance for your own defense. No matter what tricks they try, you shall have the tool at hand that turns them aside. Shall we try?”

  They nodded. Ernest cleared his throat, feeling the thrill of excitement.

  Dagen looked doubtful. “You seek to solve our problems by having us play a parlor game? What is it, magic?”

  “Oh, no, my friend,” Ernest said. He did not dare to reveal the hope he felt that he would see some magic during the afternoon. “Being able to cure the mind of its maladies is a process. This is the beginning of a long journey, but we will take it together. You shall face perils, but have confidence that you will defeat them.”

  “I do not like this,” Dagen protested, his face red. “You would seek to make a fool of me? You will confront me with images I cannot resist.”

  “Not at all. As long as you are the knight of our fancy, you are safe. I tell you this. You will slay your dragons, here and now.”

  “I see them outside of this place and time. Not here.”

  Ernest smiled at him reassuringly. “But that is how I will teach you to deal with them. Call it a shared dream or a waking meditation in which I will be your guide. No harm can come to you here. You sit in a study on the first floor just around the corner from the Hofbahnstrasse. Thousands of your cantonsmen walk within your call should you feel distress.”

  Dagen hung his head. “Now I am embarrassed.”

  “Do not be,” Ernest said. “This is an experiment. You serve science today, if you do nothing more, but I trust that you will find our adventure interesting.”

  “Now we will enter the landscape of our adventure. I wish you both to relax and put yourselves in my hands. Act from the power of your new identities.”

  Whilst I shall essay to play the wise professor with all the answers, Ernest thought. I do not feel it even while I act it. My black dog knows my falsehood. He shuddered, seeing the glowing eyes in his mind. He saw the puzzled looks of his subjects and realized his apprehension showed on his face. He schooled himself to an expression of bland interest.

  “Shall we begin?”

  “You intrigue me, Herr Doctor,” said Bachan, his eyes twinkling. “Do you mean to lead us into pretended danger?”

  “Wait and see, my friend, wait and see.” Ernest felt his heart dance with joy. One of them at least was getting into the spirit of it all. He straightened his own papers. “Please make yourself comfortable. The tantalus is at your elbow should you wish refreshment. Get up and move around if you wish, but listen.

  “The sun on your faces is much brighter than any Swiss sunrise, and the heat surrounds you like a Turkish bath. You reach up to ease the collar around your hot throats, but what do you find? Not a collar and tie. You, friend Dagen, feel a soft cloth, the front of a hood that hangs down your back. You look down. You wear a tunic of shining chain mail. On your breast is a golden sunburst. At your hip is a sword.”

  “I cannot use a sword,” Dagen protested.

  “This version of you can. In fact, you are most puis sant as a swordsman. Be confident in that. No man may match your skill. You are most respected for it.”

  To his pleasure, Dagen relaxed against the back of the settee.

  “You, Bachan, feel a simpler collar, raised with a square cutout, the mark of a clergyman. Your habit, which reaches to your feet, is a simple one, but of good wool cloth. Those who see you respect you, for you are above the temptations of this world. A silver cross hangs around your neck. When you touch it, it tingles as if filled with electricity.”

  Bachan laughed. “I like my new self already!”

  “Are we together?” asked the merchant’s nephew, hopefully.

  Ernest kept his voice calm. “Do you wish to journey together?”

  “Yes. We are friends.”

  “Yes,” Bachan agreed, with a grin. “I would welcome his company. Journeys are always more fun when they are shared.”

  “Ah. Shield brothers, as in the old epics.” When they looked blank, Ernest shook his head. The education of this new generation of young men was sorely lacking in the classics. “You must read some of them. I will give you a list of sagas when we have finished here.”

  He plunged into the tale that he had created the night before. Leading them through the streets of his imaginary tropical port, he brought his knight and his clergyman to a bazaar full of brilliantly colored curtained booths, strange smells, exotic animals, and bearded men with dark-skinned faces shouting at him over weird, discordant music. He had seen such things on his own travels to Turkey and the Levant.

  They listened with growing intent, so much so that they were surprised when he stopped and said, “Well, what will you do here?”

  “Do?” they echoed, looking puzzled.

  “Well, I cannot estimate what you would do in this situation, you or your avatars. Here a foreign merchant is offering you the key to a vast storehouse of treasure that would make you richer than kings. Only a solid gold key will open the lock.”

  Bachan’s eyes gleamed. “What does he want for it?”

  “Wait,” Dagen said, the professional man stepping forward. “This is too easy. Is the key solid gold?”

  “Well, what will tell you so?”

  “Its weight, whether the metal is soft compared with others, whether the color is pure . . .”

  “Ah, the color—the color is brassy,” Ernest admitted.

  “But, Dagen, such riches!” Bachan pleaded. “Wealth beyond measure!”

  Dagen shook his head. “How dare this man try to dis honor us with a false key! I . . . I draw my sword.”

  “He immediately withdraws the key and apologizes to you. He did not know you were so knowledgeable. Instead, he offers you a small chest. It contains the wisdom you will need in your travels.”

  Dagen still looked suspicious. “I see I must keep my guard up all the time we are there. Who would know that a merchant of foreign parts would behave just like a trader in the markets here?”

  Well pleased, Ernest continued with his narration. He led them through simple tasks. As their confidence in their new roles grew, he took it as a sign to increase the complexity of the adventure. He could not have been more pleased at the success of his venture.

  Before his very eyes, the timid clerk was becoming a bold man of action. At Ernest’s word that a fiend of terrifying proportion had broken through the door of their humble inn.

  “He seizes the young barmaid around the neck. She screams for rescue. Everyone else is frightened of this enormous monster.”

  Dagen leaped from his seat.

  “I draw my sword and demand he release her! If he departs now, I will not harm him.”

  “He snarls at you with slavering jaws. He is an unnatural creature of the night. T
his young woman will become his meal if she is not saved.”

  “Then I shall save her!” For the first time Dagen hesitated. “How do I know if I succeed? I have no real sword at hand, nor a foe.”

  Ernest opened a small glass box on the table and produced a pair of dice. “Take your chances, my friend.”

  “What?”

  “If you can outthrow me, then you will defeat him. If not . . . well, you will not succeed at everything you essay in this life.”

  “I will beat him!”

  The dice chattered to a halt. Six. Ernest threw a seven. Dagen was outraged.

  “But that is too simple! I must try again.”

  Why not? Ernest handed the cubes back to him. “Three times, then, in total. Defeat me twice, and you slay the demon. Keep the strength of your sword in your mind. Know how you will wield it. Go!”

  The second and third throws were successful. Dagen yelped his joy. Bachan pounded his friend upon the back. Ernest poured them a whisky apiece, and they toasted one another.

  After that it was simple to lead them through the land of make believe. Dagen was eager to slay monsters, even charging into darkened buildings and strange parts of the verbal city to find them. The unknown became a challenge instead of a threat. Ernest made notes to discuss with him later as to the application in the real world.

  The trials for Bachan were more difficult. He needed to be shown that worldly riches were often unworthy trash. Ernest set him tasks in which to succeed he must choose goodness instead of worldliness. It was not so easy, for he was ready to grasp at any symbol of wealth. Ernest deliberately led him into traps that catapulted him into dungeon cells from which Dagen must liberate him until he began to look at true beauty without calculating its monetary value or wanting to give the answer that he thought Ernest wanted him to give. If he remembered to employ the silver cross, it helped him determine what was truth and what was lies, but even with that advantage, Ernest had not made the contests easy ones. Bachan rose to the challenge, forgetting all about his humble station, and made use of what was a good brain and a good heart. When he finally passed one of the tests, he looked as if he had been granted a title by the king.