Gaal the Conqueror

by John White

  He watched the knees and feet of the two boys between which he planned to burst out. And then, putting into practice the strange tackle he had to learn for Canadian football, he hurled himself at their knees. They fell limply on top of him, but he shook them off before they had time to think and was on his feet, ready to run like a deer to the path from which he had emerged. But before he had gone two paces he checked himself in dismay. A line of gray-clad men stood waiting for him, their arms outstretched and reaching out for him. Other men and women were streaming in his direction, some on his right, some on his left, all with outstretched arms. As he glanced over his shoulder he saw that the boys and girls who had formed the circle were coming after him in unison.

  Were they all hypnotized? What was wrong with them? He glanced at the temple and to his dismay saw that the old man with the skull cap was standing in the sunshine. He was certainly not sleepwalking like the rest of them appeared to be. His bearing was alert and his movements purposeful. But they were strange movements. As he glanced from one group of the villagers to another the fingers of his hands moved in strange configurations, as though he were playing an invisible musical instrument or manipulating invisible puppets.

  Puppets? John caught his breath. Was that it? Were all the people puppets, and was the man in black magically controlling their movements? It was plain that he could not see John, but was there some other way in which he could sense his presence? He checked the wave of panic that threatened to engulf him, and turned toward the people on his right. His invisibility was helping, but it was by no means an absolute protection. It was almost as though they could discern him through the tips of their fingers. On the right the line was thinner, and he began to walk rapidly in that direction watching the line carefully, ready to rush and dodge if need be. Twenty yards beyond the moving men and women were the jade-green waters of the fjord, and if need be he would swim to get away.

  The larger circle that now surrounded him was slowly closing. And something else was happening. A voice, like the rich deep voice of a good radio announcer, sounded inside his left ear. "Don't run away. We want to get to know you. You have seen the whirlpool in the temple. We like you, John Wilson."

  Was that the voice of the white-haired puppeteer? "No you don't," he shouted, his heart now racing. "Get out of my way! I don't belong here!"

  "I love you, John Wilson. Stay with us. We want to make you happy. You have seen the whirlpool, and you have perceived its hidden peril."

  The voice was louder now, and his steps were slowing. His limbs felt heavy. He placed his invisible hands over his invisible ears to cut it out. He stumbled unsteadily. It felt strange to hear the name John Wilson again, for it was a name he once thought was his. How did the voice know?

  Again it sounded, "Don't run, John Wilson. We want to make you happy, happy, happy, HAPPY..." Steadily the sound increased, and as it did his limbs grew steadily weaker.

  "Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!" he shouted in return, not caring now whether the people heard him or not. His mind was confused, but he knew he was now three paces in front of the line of moving men and, weaving wildly and uncertainly, he plunged between two of them, the groping fingers barely missing him. His mind stopped working. He was only conscious of the repeated, "HAPPY! HAPPY! HAPPY!" ringing shrilly and incessantly through his brain and body.

  He crawled toward the water that lay only yards ahead. He had to get into it. He was not clear why. He only knew that he had to. Blindly and desperately he crawled, rose, stumbled, fell and crawled again, while the never-ending voices screeched their message of love. Only five yards now. Four. Three. Two. A hand grabbed his foot. He screamed, summoned his remaining strength, and kicked as hard as he could.

  He was free. Before he could tell what was happening he slipped and slithered down a sloping rocky shelf and tumbled helplessly over the edge of it into deep water. He sank in shock ingly icy water, and in total silence. The voices had gone. His strength and energy began to return, and he could think again. He struggled against the weight.of his boots and his sword, to the surface. On shore the men and women had turned around and were drifting back toward the village, their arms hanging loosely at their sides.

  It was difficult to tread water, but for lifesaving practice he had often swum fair distances carrying a moderately heavy rock on his chest, and he did not want to get rid of anything until he had to. Carefully he watched the retreating people in gray. Darkness was falling.

  He glanced to his right where the trees came down to the water. He would swim ashore there. But then he saw a man standing by the shore under the trees, staring intently into the water, staring in fact at John. "It can't be!" he muttered to himself. "I'm invisible. How can he see me?"

  Then he realized the man on the bank was staring at the disturbance of the water. Carefully he tried to make as little movement as possible. But it was difficult. He was tired and cold, and the weight of his boots and sword still pulled him down.

  "Is that you, Sword Bearer?" The words came clearly across the calm water. "Is that you in the water?"

  Was the man friend or foe? He decided to call out, knowing he would have to leave the water soon. "Who are you? And what do you want?" He seemed to be a young man. Even in the dusk John could see that his hair was blond.

  "Pontificater sent me. My name is Authentio, son of the widow Illith, who is a servant of Gaal," he called. "Have no fear, Sword Bearer." John began to swim toward the shore. It was a risk he would have to take. Authentio continued to call out to him. "Pontificater told me you were following the path to the village. He feared for you. The village is a place of danger for Shagah is there."

  There was a pause as John snatched the Mashal Stone from around his neck and began to wade for the last yard or so. The young man stepped into the water to assist him. "That's better. I can see you now. Here, let me help you," he said.

  "Who's Shagah?" John asked.

  "Shagah is the most powerful sorcerer in Anthropos, and the servant of the Circle. You must come with me to the dragon's cave. There is a fire there and hot food for you."

  John said nothing. He was bitterly cold. Something about the way the young man spoke reassured him, but the thought of seeing the dragon again made him uncomfortable. He was weary, cold and hungry, and the thought of a fire and hot food was attractive. He had lost his concern over the dog, assuming that it was dead by now.

  "Why did they stop coming after me?"

  "Because you were in the water. It's salt water, you know."

  "What's that got to do with it?"

  "Magic stops when it comes against salt water. It gets hopelessly confused. At least Shagah's kind of magic does."

  It did not take them long to reach the cave. Dripping and shivering, John followed Authentio uphill through the woods, until the exercise warmed them a little. Eventually their trail became extremely precipitous, crossing a rock face above the fjord until they stumbled on to sand and gravel at the entrance of a cave on the cliff face. The cave was huge. John stumbled inside, to see the dragon by an enormous, roaring fire whose smoke ascended through a crack in the cave roof far above them. An iron pot was suspended above the clambering flames.

  John had grown so weary that he never remembered clearly what happened afterward. But within an hour he was sleeping, warm, dry and fed, on a comfortable bed of clean straw.

  John stared at the rocky ceiling above him, making patterns in his mind of the cracks, the bumps and the hollows. It was a soaring, gothic sort of ceiling, but he was too warm and sleepy to care about anything other than letting his mind wander. Gradually he became aware of the crackling of burning wood and of faint, flickering reflections of firelight, intermingling with daylight on the rock. He began to smell the previous night's stew.

  Memory slowly returned to him though the details of what had happened were hazy. The stew he remembered, but he couldn't recall going to bed. Slowly he raised himself on one elbow and stared at the dazzling sunlight beyond the cave mouth. As
he looked once more round the cave, he found he could see nothing apart from large red and green blobs. Eventually he was able to make out the fire and the cooking pot.

  "Pontificater! Are you here? I can't see anything. Pontificates?" But there was no reply. Slowly he got to his feet and stared down at himself. He was wearing a long nightshirt that reached to his bare feet. Carefully he made his way to the cave mouth and stepped into the bright sunlight on the rocky platform beyond it.

  "Good morning! You slept well, I trust?"

  It was the dragon's voice and John swung round to look at him, shading his eyes with his hand. "Oh, hi! I mean, good morning! What time is it?"

  "Time? Oh, time-yes. We-er-we don't bother with it too much here. It's morning. About mid-morning. Sun's getting warm."

  John shivered a little. "It's not quite warm enough for thiser-what is it?" he asked, indicating the nightshirt.

  "Oh, that. What do I know about human vestments? I don't wear anything myself. That garment, whatever it is, is usually worn by male human beings in bed. I saw diagrams of it in a treatise on the denizens of other worlds in other ages. You yourself are such a denizen, I take it."

  John sniggered. The idea of a being denizen of another world was appealing. "Well, I'm not the sort of denizen that wears things like this," he said. "I've never seen one before."

  "It's part of the extra clothing that was sent here for you before you arrived. Last night your clothes were wet, very wet. And you didn't seem to be able to stay awake. If I hadn't known you (from history, of course), I would have said you were drunk. So I undressed you, dried you, put that-uh-garment on you, and..."

  "Are my clothes dry now?"

  "Yes. Didn't you see them? Like a good valet I left them at the foot of your bed. Your cloak may be an itty-bitty singed. I dried it a bit with fire from my nostrils. But otherwise your clothes are fine."

  John made his way into the cave. Sure enough, the clothes were there, and gratefully he put them on. A hole had been burned in the blue cloak, about where his right shoulder fitted. "An itty-bitty scorched indeed," he muttered to himself, not sure whether to be angry or amused. John looked up to see the young man Authentio standing in the entrance way of an opening in the cave wall. For the first time he became aware that there were other passages in the cave and wondered where they led.

  "Well, good morning to both of you. What a solemn pair you are! Have you had any breakfast?"

  In yet another of the openings, John was startled to see a girl of about his own age. She wore a loose dress of white, woolen material that fell to just below her knees, along with boots like John's. Her long hair fell loosely about her shoulders. He was startled because he felt sure he knew her. "Eleanor? I-I'm sorry-you look a bit like-but she's much younger than you and anyway-"

  The girl was nodding. "It's me, John. I was so glad to see you yesterday. It meant the two years were over. That's why I jumped up at you so much! I was so excited."

  John stared open-mouthed while the girl continued to talk. Finally he said, "Stop! Do stop! I don't understand! You say you are Eleanor? But you can't be! It doesn't make sense. You're too old. And what in the world do you mean, you were so glad to see me yesterday?"

  "Why, yesterday of course. Didn't he tell you?"

  "Yesterday? You mean in Canada?"

  "No, here. When we were digging for the treasure."

  "I never saw you!"

  "Of course you did. I was the black dog. Tell him, Authentio!"

  "I think we'd better all go out on to the ledge. Pontificater is outside and will want to hear it all."

  As they trooped on to the ledge, John turned to the dragon, his face a mask of perplexity. "What happened yesterday? This girl says she's Eleanor-what's it all about?"

  Once again the dragon carefully cleared his long throat. Then he said, "I scorched her. Burned her to a cinder. There wasn't any singed dog-hair smell after all. She burned cleanly to fine white ashes-and Eleanor is what came out of the ashes. I must confess I never saw anything like it."

  John never moved. He stared first at the girl, then at the dragon: shaking his head all the while. Once or twice he began to speak, but each time changed his mind. Eventually he said, "I-don't-believe it. Well, I do, but-" He continued to shake his head.

  "Exactly." Pontificater said. "I had some misgivings myself about the operation, and I must confess that I was relieved when the young lady emerged. There was nothing at all in the prophecy about her. Still, you never can tell how these things will turn out."

  Once again John turned his head to Eleanor, then to the dragon, then back again to Eleanor. "And you are Eleanorthe Eleanor MacFarland that disappeared from the lake?"

  He felt strangely excited and was half laughing with nervousness. "But you're different! I know you look like her, but you're older."

  "Well, of course! It's over two years since you saw me."

  "Two years? It was only yesterday-well the night before last, kind of."

  Eleanor frowned, and the dragon interrupted. "He only got here yesterday, Eleanor," the dragon said. "Time apparently plays queer tricks on these interexistence trips. The reasons are obscure. But you will notice that he hasn't aged any since you last saw him. For him it was only yesterday. For you it is more than two years."

  As John thought of the way Eleanor moved and spoke, he knew she was the girl that he was seeking, the same girl who had left her father's house in terror. Yet there was a difference besides her age. She no longer cringed or avoided people. John smiled at her and began to shake his head wordlessly. "Well, I guess we can go back to Canada now. I hope my dad hasn't been too worried. Two years must have seemed an awful long time. But-how did you get to be a dog?"

  "It was a sorcerer's spell-a horrible sorcerer called Shagah. He did it soon after I got here. I hated it-until I met Gaal. Then it wasn't so bad." She sat down in the cave mouth, curling her legs beneath her.

  "Shagah," John thought to himself. "Same guy as yesterday."

  "Like my dress?" Eleanor asked coyly. "That's what I was wearing when I became human again. I've no idea what's happened to my jeans and stuff. I've never had a dress-leastwise not since I was a little kid. And it seems funny to be twelve."

  "You'll be ten when you get back to Canada," John said. "What did it feel like to be a dog? What did you do all that time? How did you eat?"

  Eleanor paused a long time before answering. Then she said, "Well, like I said, I hated it at first. But that's what I was-a whipped dog. That's what Shagah said to me, `Henceforth be what you are! Go!' And-and I turned into the dog you saw. Well, not exactly the dog you saw.

  "At first I only sneaked around. I was scared of everybodyI mean everybody. I was scared of my own shadow. I always had my tail between my legs. I didn't know how to wag it until after I first met Gaal. When I saw him he looked at me so kindly and said, `You can come with me if you like.' That was the nicest thing that ever happened to me. And suddenly I didn't even mind being a dog. I could tell he liked me. So I followed him around."

  The dragon nodded. "His capacity to make one feel appreciated is quite remarkable," he said gravely.

  "I was too scared to let him touch me at first. I wouldn't even let him get near me. But I was hungry, and he would toss me bits of things he was eating. Only he kept throwing them closer to himself. And one day when I wasn't looking, he stroked my head. It sounds funny, but he smelled so good! And oh, to be touched by him! That's when my tail first started to wag."

  "Who is this Gaal person?"

  "He's the most wonderful person in the world." Eleanor said the words with a rush. "I don't even want to go back to Canada if I can't get to see him there."

  "Did he know you weren't really a dog?"

  "He seems to know everything. I didn't realize it at first. But one day when he had me on his knee, stroking me and tickling my ears, he said, `You're not always going to remain a dog, you know!' I could hardly breathe!"

  "What happened next?"

 
"Nothing. I couldn't talk then, so I couldn't ask him what he meant. And he was like that. He'd just say something exciting, and then leave you hanging for a while. It wasn't as though he was teasing. He just seemed to want to let it sink in. Even when he made me a talking dog he didn't always answer my questions immediately. But he never stopped caring for me. I used to lick his sandals after he fell asleep."

  "He sounds a bit like the Changer," John said.

  "Who's he?"

  "Oh-it's kind of complicated. But how did you know about the treasure?"

  "Well, one day he said he had a task for me. He said he had the power to turn me into a girl again at any time, but that there were things I had to learn first. He seemed to know about my dad and about where my fears came from." She sighed, and her face darkened. "You saw a bit of it when you came-but you don't know a quarter of what went on. There are some things that make me sick-and so ashamed. Once when Gaal was stroking me, I looked up and saw him crying. I knew that he knew then. And then he said I had to begin by not giving in to my fears. There would be a dragon, he said. And I had to dig the treasure up, even if I was terrified, while the dragon was there. He said that real treasure is always dug up in the face of terror.

  "I was still scared of everything and everyone-even of him at times. And he said he wanted to teach me to do things even when I was afraid. Then when I'd dug the treasure up, I was to ask the dragon to put me to death. `His fires are my fires,' he said, `and my fires from his nostrils are going to bum the whipped dog in you to ashes. Then the real you will come forward, the girl I always planned you to be.' And that's what happened."

  John nodded. "He is like the Changer."

  "Ah, yes, the Changer," the dragon murmured. "The Unchanging Changer. The Uncreated Creator. And so on. Invisible. Never seen by anybody."

  "I saw him," John said, "when I was here last time. Well, I didn't exactly see him. But there was this blue light-and he spoke to me. He has a voice like Niagara Falls. Only kind of gentle. But scary."