by Walter Moers
Looking down, he saw that his ankles were trapped by two tendrils—no ordinary tendrils, however. Although they were of the same olive-green colour as the other plants around, they had tiny, elfin faces, dainty but athletic bodies, and muscular-looking hands and arms. Embedded in the ground from the waist down, they wore little hats consisting of upturned flower cups.
‘Don’t run away!’ one of them called in a piping voice. ‘Stand your ground!’
‘Yes!’ snarled the other. ‘Abandon yourself to your fate!’
‘The forest of evil spirits,’ Gustave thought suddenly, ‘—I must be in the midst of it already!’
He strove to free himself, but the stubborn elves hung on tight.
‘At last there’s going to be some action around here!’ the first one crowed delightedly.
‘Yes, if you think we’re going to let you get away, you’re wrong!’ said the other. ‘We want to see the colour of your blood!’
Gustave redirected his attention to the knight, who by now was only a few lengths away. His metallic war cry had risen to a shriek, and foam was flying from the horse’s muzzle.
It seemed to Gustave that his only option was to accept the inevitable. He sank to his knees, shielding his head with his hands, and watched the galloping knight bear down on him.
He resigned himself to the following sequence of events: (a) the lance would transfix his chest with a horrid noise; (b) horse and rider would come crashing down on him, breaking every bone in his body; and (c) the black knight could then, if he chose to, knock his head off his shoulders with the ball-and-chain. This was a thoroughly realistic assessment of his immediate future—at least for as long as these obnoxious elves continued to cling to his feet, and they showed no signs of letting go.
‘You’re dead!’ yelled one.
‘Now you can surrender your soul!’ laughed the other.
What actually happened, however, was that the charging horse seemed suddenly to slow down. To be more precise, every movement made by the horse and its rider seemed to become more protracted, as if someone had applied the brakes to time itself.
The black knight’s voice became unnaturally deep, like the lowest note of a tuba. His mailed left fist, which was swinging the ball-and-chain, detached itself from his arm and, propelled through the air by the weapon’s momentum, flew off into the forest. The cast-iron ball embedded its spikes in the trunk of a birch tree, the mailed fist swung ponderously to and fro on the end of the rattling chain. Gustave stared in astonishment as the knight’s right arm fell off, leaving a hole through which he could see that the armour was empty. The left leg broke loose, keeled over sideways, and was dragged along by the stirrup, the remains of the left arm went flying, as did the other leg. The helmet, which also fell off, was as empty as everything else. Then the rest of the armour crashed to the ground. All that was left was the horse, which threw back its head and drove its hoofs into the ground. Great clods of earth went flying past Gustave’s ears as the animal skidded to a halt only inches short of him.
That was when he woke up. He was still lying where he had sunk to the ground after the gryphon had taken its leave. Standing beside him was a nag that bore not the slightest resemblance to the proud warhorse of his nightmare. Considerably leaner and far less handsome, it was pawing the ground, snorting, and nervously frisking to and fro.
‘Good morning,’ it said.
Although Gustave was surprised to encounter a horse that could speak, another beast with the power of speech was no big deal in view of recent developments, so he merely returned its salutation.
‘Good morning,’ he said sleepily.
‘My name is Pancho,’ the horse said, ‘—Pancho Sansa.’
‘Pancho Sansa?’ thought Gustave. ‘What a silly name, and why does it sound so familiar?’ Courtesy seemed to prescribe that he introduce himself likewise.
‘My name is Gustave—’
‘—Doré,’ the horse cut in. ‘Yes, I know. I’m your next travelling companion. I’m afraid I lost your new suit of armour in the forest back there. The undergrowth was so dense, it knocked the stuff off my back. I’ll show you where the pieces are lying. Then you can put on your ironmongery and we’ll go and give a few of these evil spirits what for, agreed?’
A HERD OF graceful deer fled, startled by the intrusive sound of Pancho’s hoofs as he trotted across a verdant meadow with Gustave on his back. Gustave was in full armour once more. His accoutrements weren’t black and fearsome-looking, like those of the knight in his dream, but made of fine chased silver like the ones he had worn before.
A flock of birds with exotic plumage took wing, twittering indignantly, and disappeared into the tangle of branches and creepers. Spiders’ webs floated through the air, forming gossamer-fine rope ladders up which the little light that remained was ascending into the evening sky. Glow-worms—or were they will-o’-the-wisps?—began to dance and fill the air with multicoloured squiggles.
‘This must be the enchanted forest,’ said Gustave.
‘Know what forests give me?’ asked Pancho. ‘The creeps! Yessir, I’m more of a prairie type. Wide-open spaces, fields, meadows, deserts—even roads, provided they’re long and straight. Forests are the bitter end. Mountains are bad enough, but forests—’
‘Ssh,’ said Gustave. ‘What was that?’
Pancho gave a snort of alarm. ‘What was what?’
‘Oh, nothing,’ muttered Gustave. ‘I thought I heard something, that’s all.’
Faint singing pervaded the air of the forest, mingled with crackling, rustling noises. Now and then, acorns and twigs landed on Gustave’s helmet as if someone had deliberately chucked them at him.
‘You’re right,’ whispered Pancho, ‘this forest is bewitched.’
It seemed to Gustave that they had for some time been riding along the bed of a long-dried-up river. The ground was littered with big, smooth pebbles, banks of earth the height of a man towered on either side, thick with grass and bushesb, and the winding track described a series of sharp bends. The trees became steadily denser. Grotesquely stunted oaks stood cheek by jowl, intertwining their mighty branches and shutting out the evening sunlight. Before long the two travellers were overarched by an impenetrable canopy of foliage.
They trotted along with a sense of foreboding until, as they rounded yet another bend in the river bed, an unforeseen and startling sight met their eyes. Ahead of them, seated beneath an immense oak tree, was an old woman.
Although the roots writhing out of the ground around her looked as if they might envelop the frail old crone at any moment and drag her down into some subterranean, elfin realm, she seemed to have no fear of the enchanted forest.
She had folded her hands on her lap and was staring grimly into space. What with her sunken cheeks, the little crown on her head, and her voluminous black robe, she looked like a deposed monarch who had been banished to the depths of the forest to await death by starvation. Above her, perched on a root and imitating her grim expression, sat an owl.
Gustave and Pancho rode very, very slowly past the old lady so as not to startle her, but she took no notice of either of them, just looked straight through them as if gazing into another dismal dimension.
They were just about to round the next bend and lose sight of this strange apparition when Gustave reined in.
‘What’s the matter?’ whispered Pancho. ‘Let’s ride on. The poor old biddy’s cracked. They’re nothing but trouble, people like that.’
‘I don’t know,’ Gustave whispered back. ‘She looks familiar to me, somehow.’
He tugged at the bridle, wheeled Pancho round, and rode back.
‘Allow me to introduce myself,’ he said. ‘I’m Gustave Doré.’
‘Eh?’ The old woman was visibly taken aback by this courteous approach. Her vacant expression was replaced by one of dismay. She started to gesticulate, only to stop short in mid movement.
‘Doré,’ Gustave repeated politely in a somewhat louder voice. ‘G
ustave Doré.’
‘Hell’s bells!’ the old woman blurted out.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Gustave Doré …’ she said, as if to herself. ‘You, of all people!’
She cackled insanely, muttered something that sounded like ‘Incredible!’ and ‘That’s all I needed!’ and brushed some invisible crumbs off her robe. Then she seemed to quieten. ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked curtly, looking straight at Gustave.
To his ears, the question sounded as if it had been asked by someone he’d known for a considerable time and had now re-encountered in an exotic, outlandish place. It also sounded as if that someone was anything but pleased to have renewed their acquaintance.
Closer examination convinced him that he didn’t know the old woman at all—indeed, familiar though she still seemed, he was sure he’d never seen her before. Despite the bewildering nature of the situation, he tried to answer her question as truthfully as possible.
‘I’m on my way to perform a task for Death. Several tasks, in fact. It’s a complicated business. That’s why I have to cross this forest. Do you know it well?’
The old lady laughed rather too loudly—almost hysterically, it seemed to Gustave.
‘Me? This forest? Do I know it well?’ She cackled again, so violently that she choked and had a coughing fit. Then, fixing Gustave with an expression which, though grave and stern, was somewhat less unfriendly than before, she asked, ‘So you’d like to know what route to take?’
Gustave thought for a moment. ‘It might be helpful,’ he replied.
‘Aren’t you getting to be of an age when you ought to make such decisions yourself?’
Gustave was taken aback. He hadn’t been prepared for such a searching question.
‘Just keep going, boy! I don’t know you and you don’t know me. You only think you know me. Be off with you!’
Gustave was about to ride on, chastened by the black-clad figure’s brusque manner, when her last remark brought him up short. ‘How did you know you seem familiar to me?’ he asked. ‘I never said anything about it.’
The old woman avoided his eye and bit her lip. ‘Damnation!’ she muttered.
‘Who are you?’ asked Gustave. ‘What are you doing here, all alone in this deep, dark forest?’
‘I, er … I’m a forest witch. An evil forest witch!’ croaked the old woman, but she didn’t sound too convincing. Her eyes roamed uncertainly to and fro, and she fidgeted with her robe in embarrassment. In Gustave’s estimation, an evil forest witch would have been a bit more self-assured.
‘I’m an evil forest witch in a good mood!’ the old crone added quickly. ‘Better take advantage of the fact and get going before I transform you into, er, stinging nettles, or something of the kind.’ She opened her eyes wide and waggled her bony fingers in the air.
‘Come on, let’s go,’ Pancho called impatiently. ‘We’re not wanted here.’
‘How is it I don’t believe you?’ Gustave asked as politely and amiably as he could. ‘How come I get the feeling I know you, although I’ve never seen you before? Can you explain that?’
The old woman bowed her head and fidgeted with her robe some more. ‘Yes, I can,’ she said, and it seemed to Gustave that she was blushing.
‘Oh, really?’
‘Yes, I can …’ The old woman lifted her head and looked him in the eye. ‘I’ll have to go back a bit, but you’ll understand in the end.’ The note of uncertainty had left her voice, and she seemed to be getting ready to tell the truth. She raised her hands and spread her wizened fingers.
‘Very well, picture the following: a large department store—one of those modern places that exist in big cities nowadays. You’re employed at the information desk. You know, you’re one of those nice people at the counter on the ground floor who tell you where to find the menswear department.’
Gustave nodded, Pancho snorted contemptuously.
‘You’ve had the job for a long time, so you know the store like the back of your hand, but it’s recently been undergoing alterations. Departments keep being transferred to different floors, builders are at work everywhere, walls are being demolished and new ones erected. You don’t feel as thoroughly at home there as you used to. Are you with me so far?’
‘Yes,’ said Gustave, ‘I think so.’
‘Good,’ said the old woman. ‘Now, imagine you suddenly need to go to the men’s room!’
‘ To the men’s room?’ Gustave repeated uncomprehendingly.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ Pancho whispered.
‘Ssh!’ Gustave hissed.
‘So you set off,’ pursued the old woman. ‘Of course you know the way to the toilets—you’ve directed people there a thousand times—but now you find your way barred by a maze of walls that weren’t there before. Whole departments have been uprooted, and you have to change floors several times. All at once it dawns on you: You don’t know where the toilets are.’
Gustave tried to picture the situation. There was something amusing about it, but also something alarming.
‘Now comes the worst part: just then, the owner of the store— your boss!—comes up to you and asks you the way to the toilets.’
The old woman paused and gave Gustave a searching stare. ‘You see? We’re in just the same situation here and now.’
‘Oo-hoo!’ cried the owl.
Although Gustave held the old woman’s gaze, he couldn’t think what she was getting at. Pancho made some impatient noises.
‘Don’t you understand?’ the old woman blurted out. ‘I’m your dream princess!’
‘You’re a dream princess?’ said Gustave, still politely. Pancho seemed to be right: the poor old thing was deranged. He searched around for some suitable way of bringing the conversation to an end.
‘Not only that: I’m your own personal dream princess!’
Gustave had a rather different conception of his own personal dream princess. He pictured her as golden-haired and considerably younger—just like the damsel he’d ‘rescued’ from the dragon, to be precise.
He felt an icy little stab in the chest.
The old woman sighed. ‘Listen, my boy. Everyone has someone to guide them through their dreams. Men have a dream princess, women a dream prince. That’s what we’re called—I didn’t invent the term myself. Personally, I think it’s a pompous and inappropriate job description. I’d prefer dream consultant.’
She cleared her throat.
‘That’s why I seem so familiar to you. You’ve often come across me, but always in a different guise. Those are the rules: a different guise for every dream. This time it’s this idiotic get-up.’ She gave her heavy robe a disapproving tweak and tapped her little crown.
‘Do you remember that dream where you climbed a tree made of meat with a red raven perched on top? I was the raven.’
Gustave seldom if ever remembered a dream, and he certainly had no recollection of one with a red raven in it. ‘Just a minute,’ he said. ‘Are you telling me that this is all a dream? The forest, you yourself, my horse—all just a dream?’
‘Ridiculous!’ Pancho snorted and stamped his left hoof impatiently.
The old woman groaned.
‘You asked me a question and I answered it. I advised you to ride on, but you stayed. I lied to you, but you wanted the truth. I even pretended to be a witch. What else do you want me to do?’
‘I can’t believe it,’ said Gustave. ‘Everything seems so … well, real.’
‘A talking horse? An enchanted forest? An old woman who tells you she’s a dream princess? You call that real?’ The old woman, who couldn’t help laughing, choked and had another coughing fit.
‘But if none of this is real,’ Gustave objected, ‘then you don’t exist either.’
The old woman’s face suddenly stiffened again.
‘Believe me, my boy,’ she said gravely, ‘that’s a problem I’ve been debating for a very long time—whenever I’ve a spare moment, in fact.’
Gus
tave tried to argue logically.
‘If you’re my very own dream princess—or dream consultant, whichever—what are you doing here in the middle of the forest?’
‘That’s the embarrassing part: I’ve lost my way. I don’t know where the toilets are!’ The old woman gave a bitter laugh. ‘I’ve no idea what’s gone wrong with your dreams of late, but they’ve definitely been getting wilder. Perhaps it’s got something to do with your age. You’ll soon be leaving childhood behind.’
‘I haven’t been a child for ages!’ Gustave protested with a scowl. ‘I’m twelve already!’
‘Yes, yes,’ the dream princess said dismissively, ‘but don’t be too keen to grow up.’ She eyed her wrinkled hands with distaste.
‘What has my age got to do with you losing your way?’ Gustave asked sharply.
‘How should I know? I’m merely voicing conjectures. I’m only a dream consultant, after all. What’s more, I’m doing the job for the first time.’ The old woman grunted. ‘Earlier on you used to dream about rabbits, about your parents, and building bricks, and the red ball you were so fond of playing with, and the ducks in the park. But lately—good heavens! Dragons! Winged monsters? Talking jellyfish! Naked girls! No wonder the likes of me can’t find my way around your dreams any more.’
Gustave blushed. How did she know about his adventures on the Island of Damsels in Distress? Their conversation was becoming more and more bewildering.
‘Pin your ears back,’ said the dream consultant, ‘and I’ll give you a rundown on the way dreams work—as far as my information goes, that is. A short course in dreamology for beginners, right?’
Gustave nodded.
‘You must simply think of the dream-world as another country, and when you dream you’re going on a journey through that country. You’re travelling, even though you’re lying in bed without budging from the spot. Dreams are the most fantastic free rides imaginable. We really ought to sell tickets for them.’
