The Gawgon and the Boy

by Lloyd Alexander

  8 The Gawgon and the Sphinx

  "The nose of the Sphinx is missing," said The Gawgon.

  "Most of it. Blame that on the Emperor Napoleon-no, not yet emperor then. Only General Bonaparte."

  "Bones-Apart," I said. "Sometimes, Boy," said The Gawgon, "you can be very silly. Well, in any event, he let his troops use it for target practice. A pudgy little man, Napoleon, with that spit curl on his forehead and a hand in his jacket as if he had to scratch. Small, for an emperor."

  The Gawgon had been following her custom of exploring odd byways, more exciting than my plodding classes at Rittenhouse Academy. That afternoon, she had started me on penmanship exercises to improve my deplorable handwriting.

  "The trick is in the wrist," The Gawgon said. "You '11 get the hang of it. Be glad you don't have to write in Egyptian hieroglyphics."

  That had set her off on a detour to ancient Egypt. The Sphinx and Napoleon wandered in, along with statuary and wall carvings.

  "The old pharaohs built things to last," The Gawgon said. "Temples, pyramids-still standing, mostly. A little the worse for wear; impressive, nonetheless. I'll never forget the first time I saw then."

  "You were there?" I never imagined The Gawgon being anywhere but in her room.

  "Long ago. A couple and their young daughter were touring Egypt, Greece, Italy. They hired me as a governess." The Gawgon smiled. "Governess? I was hardly more than a girl myself."

  I could believe The Gawgon was ancient enough to have seen the Pyramids under construction. But-a girl? Never. "Oh, yes," The Gawgon said, as if reading my thoughts. "Does that surprise you?"

  She went to a pigeonhole in the roll top desk and sorted through a packet of papers. "There was another Philadelphian in that gaggle of tourists. A young fellow who thought himself quite the photographer."

  The Gawgon handed me a fragile picture. "He took this of me on the pyramid of Cheops. I wanted to climb to the top, but everyone kept shouting at me to come down, afraid I'd break my neck. Scandalized, more likely. I had on riding breeches, shocking for a female."

  I peered at the photo, wafer-thin and brittle. Yet the image was sharp. Perched on a block of stone halfway up the sloping wall, a beautiful, bright-eyed girl gazed straight at the camera, grinning all over her face. I did not recognize The Gawgon at first. I glanced at her. The girl's features showed faintly behind The Gawgon's, like the lines of a drawing badly erased.

  "When the photograph was ready," The Gawgon continued, "he made a great show of presenting it to me in front of all the other tourists. 'For the intrepid lady explorer,' he said. 'As fair as she is fearless.' He was a cheeky rascal-but I was the one who got scolded. My employers said I'd been flirtatious." The Gawgon chuckled. "Perhaps they were right.

  "I never did see inside the tombs. Most were empty, anyway, ransacked by grave robbers. A fellow named Howard Carter found the biggest treasure a few years ago. Marvelous things. He dug into the burial chamber of Tutankhamen, a boy king about your age. 'King Tut,' the newspapers called him."

  We had gone well past our time. Instead of my mother driving me, I was able to walk home by myself. So, I would have stayed longer, but looking wan, The Gawgon dismissed me.

  "You've hardly touched those knots, Boy," she said. Exactly when, I could not be sure, but it was during one of those summer afternoons that The Gawgon captured my total devotion and allegiance. Because she saw me for whatever I was. No longer the Amazing Invisible Boy, with her I had nothing to hide. She made me feel my mind was free to do as it pleased. A mystery of the heart? I could not solve it, nor did I care to.

  In any case, I came to imagine her as mistress of time and space, expert in all disguises, who went wherever she chose, did whatever she chose, knew all that was to be known. To me, she was capable of everything and anything. For the simple reason, no further explanation required, she was: The Gawgon.

  THE GAWGON AND NAPOLEON. BONES-APART

  Unbeknownst to the Turkish overlords of Egypt, unsuspected by the authorities in Cairo, The Gawgon and I had set up headquarters underground between the paws of the Sphinx.

  The Gawgon, convinced that most of this colossal statue lay beneath the desert sands, thought it would be interesting to explore what she suspected was a maze of chambers and galleries untouched for thousands of years.

  We had hired a pair of expert grave robbers and highly competent ransackers to do the digging and heavy lifting; their loyalty and devotion were assured by generous cash payments from The Gawgon's unlimited financial resources. While Mustafa and Ali stood awaiting instructions, The Gawgon bent over a folding table and, by the glow of an oil lamp, sketched out a plan. For the occasion, she wore a French army officer's uniform and disguised herself as a young girl, her long red-gold hair tied with a tricolor ribbon.

  "There is a logic in architecture, Boy, as in everything else," she said. "If a chamber is here logically a passage should be here." The Gawgon stopped. Her keen ears had detected noises above ground. A moment later, I myself heard them: a series of crackling explosions like a string of firecrackers on the Fourth of July-although the Egyptians did not celebrate our glorious national holiday.

  We cautiously made our way up to the desert floor. Some yards distant, a regiment of French infantrymen lounged about, tunics unbuttoned, cocked hats askew. Some were drinking from wine bottles or playing cards on drum heads; others were firing their muskets at the Sphinx. Half the nose had already been shot away; another volley sent chips of stone raining on our heads.

  "Halt, you idiots!" cried The Gawgon. "Cessez and desistez immediately!" Dumbfounded to see a beautiful young girl in military garb snapping orders at them, the soldiers gaped and lowered their muskets. The Gawgon strode up and began tongue-lashing them for being worse than their ancestors, the barbarian Gauls. The shamefaced troops hung their heads. An angry figure came stamping through the ranks.

  "Parbleu! A thousand thunders! What is it that this is?" The pudgy little man wore a blue jacket dripping with gold braid, epaulets thick as hairbrushes; in his cocked hat, a blue, white, and red rosette; plastered on his perspiring brow, a curl like an upside-down question mark. He thrust his jaw at The Gawgon, who calmly observed him.

  "How dare you to overrule my authority, monsieur?" he cried. "But-but a thousand pardons, I mistake myself. It is a most fetching mademoiselle!" He reached out and tweaked The Gawgon's ear. "Who is it that you are?"

  "This is Le Garcon-The Boy." The Gawgon, reclaiming her ear, indicated me. "And, General Bonaparte, I am: The Gawgon."

  "La Gaugonne!" Napoleon caught his breath. "Le Garcon! I have heard of your astonishing capabilities. Your fame precedes you. Do me the honor of joining me for a glass of champagne in my tent."

  "We aren't thirsty," said The Gawgon. "The Boy and I have other things to do. As for yourself, General, allowing your troops to vandalize the treasures of antiquity, you should be ashamed."

  "Moi? What will you of me?" Napoleon shrugged his shoulders and spread his hands in that exasperating gesture the French have so perfected. "It is but an old and badly damaged Sphinx. The Turks, the Arabs, all the world shoots at it. How else to pass the time in this abominable desert?" He stopped to insert a hand between the buttons of his waistcoat. "Pardonnez. Ah, these accursed sand fleas! They attack me in battalions without mercy. And, as well, my digestion suffers in this heat.

  "Mademoiselle, we do not vandalize."-he scratched awhile longer "we preserve. Accompany yourself with me. I shall demonstrate."

  We followed Napoleon to the rear of the encampment. He pulled away a canvas cover and proudly pointed at a heap of objects: statuettes, golden bowls, elaborately painted Jars, a mummy case with a reclining figure carved on the lid.

  "Voila!" he declared. "I am rescuing these from the unworthy hands of the enemy. They will be safely transported, now that I have captured Egypt for La Belle France."

  "Captured?" retorted The Gawgon. "Who captured who? Let me say two words: Royal Navy." Napoleon's face went pale as Cam
embert cheese. The Gawgon pressed on:

  "At Abukir Bay, the British fleet devastated you. Even now, you are blockaded, bottled up, your Egyptian campaign a disaster."

  "A small setback," protested Napoleon. "It shall be rectified."

  "I doubt that," said The Gawgon. "Your government feared you were getting too big for your breeches-so to speak. They secretly wished to see you defeated, your reputation ruined. They sent you to Egypt, certain you would fail miserably. As indeed you have done."

  "Those swine! Those cows!" burst out Napoleon. "I shall foil their treacherous plot and revenge myself on them. I remain in Egypt until victory."

  "That could be a long time," said The Gawgon. "Meanwhile I do not repeat gossip and tittle-tattle, but there has been talk of the beautiful Madame Bonaparte and certain handsome young officers."

  "Josephine! Diable." Napoleon's cheeks went plum-colored. "No sooner do I turn my back than she cavorts herself!"

  He shouted for his adjutant, gave him command of the army, and ordered him to make the best of a bad situation. "I depart to Paris immediately!"

  "You can't escape, General," I warned. "The British blockade."

  "A fig for perfidious Albion! A nation of shopkeepers! I must keep the eye on that charming but naughty Josephine. I shall hire a sardine boat, a felucca, a raft if necessary."

  An orderly led up a prancing white horse. Without another word, Napoleon leaped astride and galloped off in a whirlwind of sand. The regiment hurriedly broke camp, tossing away knapsacks, blanket rolls, and other gear that would slow their hasty withdrawal. Even the pile of looted treasure was abandoned. As Mustafa and Ali joined us, The Gawgon went to examine the objects. "If I read the hieroglyphics correctly, this sarcophagus holds the remains of young King Tut."

  "Where did it come from?" I asked. "We have to hide it safely. These other things, too. We can't just leave them lying around in the desert."

  The Gawgon turned to Mustafa and Ali. "Take it to the Valley of the Kings. Find an empty tomb and haul everything into it. After that, wall it up so no one will suspect the chamber exists." She fixed an eye on our attendant grave robbers. "Listen, you two. If you breathe a word of this, if you so much as think about sneaking back and rifling the tomb, I promise I'll hound you into your graves and make mummies of you."

  The Gawgon's threat, accompanied by handfuls of gold coins, so deeply touched the hearts of Mustafa and Ali that they salaamed, groveled, and swore every oath to seal their lips for eternity. "Nothing like terror and bribery to encourage good moral conduct," The Gawgon remarked as we set about loading King Tut and his trove onto our camels. "I'm confident those bazaar ruffians will keep their mouths shut. I'm also confident some reasonably intelligent person will, in time, find these treasures and treat them with proper respect."

  The Gawgon smiled at the Sphinx looming in front of us. "There's someone, at least, who'll never tell our secret." The Sphinx smiled back at her.

  9 The Gawgon Walks Abroad

  In late summer, Mr. Digby, one of my father's Jamaican chums, stopped off during a business trip. Looking very tropical in a cream-colored suit, a planter's straw hat, and a bristly mustache, he was installed with great excitement in our spare room. To make a grand occasion, my mother cooked a dinner featuring rice and peas, mangoes, fried plantains, and other delicacies. Aunt Marta and Uncle Eustace were, of course, invited. He, my father, and Mr. Digby had not seen each other for some while. Suddenly they were all boys again, laughing like mad, drifting into Jamaican dialect, calling each other by their old nicknames: "Mackerel Fat." for Uncle Eustace, "Dog Flea." for my father, and, for Mr. Digby, "Diggers." After dinner, Diggers brought down a glass jar from his suitcase. The object of his trip, he explained, was to recruit salesmen for a miraculous new product.

  "Palm-Nutto," Diggers declared. "It cleans. It scrubs. Anything, everything. Carpets, pots and pans-you can do the laundry or wash your face with it." At this, he unscrewed the jar and fingered out a dollop of yellowish paste.

  "Completely harmless," he said, gulping down the Palm Nutto. "Good for the bowels, too."

  My father and Uncle Eustace declined this chance at a fortune. Palm-Nutto did not fit in with Oriental goods or tombstones, and Diggers dropped the subject. My mother proposed driving to Atlantic City next day. Uncle Eustace had an appointment with a grieving widow, but the rest of us thought it was a wonderful idea.

  Then I realized next day was my Friday lesson. On the one hand, I loved the seashore, amusement piers, splashing in the surf, and an opportunity to pee in the Atlantic Ocean. Irresistible charms. On the other hand, The Gawgon had taken me to Moscow, Napoleon's disastrous retreat through howling Russian blizzards, and left me deliciously agonized in suspense when he was exiled to a rocky island. I knew, from school, that he was defeated at the Battle of Waterloo. But The Gawgon had some magical way of turning mind-numbing history into new adventures, equally irresistible.

  When I explained my difficulty to my mother, she simply said the choice was mine. My sister, surprisingly, came out in favor of Atlantic City. And that was what tipped the balance.

  "Give Aunt Annie a rest," she said. "She's had to put up with you all week. She'll be glad to get rid of you for a day."

  "She won't be glad," I flung back angrily. "She won't be glad at all. Neither will I." I decided to stay with The Gawgon.

  THE GAWGON AND MAMMA LETIZIA

  We were relaxing on the terrace of The Gawgon's villa on the Riviera. For the time being, she had assumed the guise of an older lady of quality, certainly very rich. We had spent the evening in Monte Carlo, whose elegance and sophistication were matched only by Atlantic City's. In the glittering casino, The Gawgon and I had won so much at roulette that the tearful manager implored us to leave before we broke the bank, and we graciously complied.

  One of the servants came to announce a caller who declined to reveal her name. The Gawgon, always curious about unidentified visitors, agreed to receive her. Moments later there arrived a massively stout, elderly woman with swollen ankles and a gold tooth. In voluminous, shiny black skirts, a black shawl over her head, she dropped with difficulty to her knees and begged The Gawgon's help.

  "My boy, mon enfallt!" she wailed in a heavy Corsican accent, more Italian than French. "His enemies have put him on an island. Exiled, forbidden to leave." The Gawgon Walks Abroad "I take it," broke in The Gawgon, "you are Madame Bonaparte, mother of the ex-emperor."

  "Please, call me Mamma Letizia," said Madame Bonaparte. "My Napoleon I warned him he one day would go too far. Yes, a naughty boy, fighting wars with everybody. But always kind and loving to his mamma. Now his little heart breaks with unhappiness. He will surely die of boredom and misery."

  The Gawgon agreed to do all she could, and Mamma Letizia left after showering her with blessings. "In principle, I'm not fond of emperors," said The Gawgon. "Troublemakers, most of them. Worse than spoiled brats. Napoleon? I haven't decided if he was a good emperor who did. some bad things, or a bad emperor who did some good things. But, compared with Louis the Eighteenth, that nincompoop who took his throne, Napoleon looks better and better."

  The Gawgon quickly dispatched a number of secret messages and made other preparations. Within a matter of days, we were aboard a fishing boat in the Mediterranean, sailing past the tip of Corsica to the tiny isle of Elba. In the first light of dawn, we made out a figure with a telescope observing us from the shore. The Gawgon instructed the helmsman to make for a sheltered cove. Moments later, we tied up at a rickety pier. Napoleon clambered aboard, and we cast off for the open sea.

  Wrapped in a threadbare greatcoat, a sailor's knitted cap on his head, Napoleon did not immediately recognize The Gawgon, who wore a sea cloak and had pasted on a false beard and mustache. When he realized her identity, he was pathetically grateful:

  "Ah, La Gaugonne! Angel of mercy to extract me from this shabby, third-rate island! It has been insupportable, morbleu!"

  "Ordinarily," said The Gawgon, "I prefer to
let the high and mighty get themselves out of their own messes. I'm only doing this for your mamma's sake."

  "My beloved mammal." Napoleon clasped his hands. "To see her son brought so low! Non, non, that is not just. A thousand devils and zut, alors! Why did I sell the Louisiana so cheap? I could have gone there and built a new empire of the Western Hemisphere." I suggested he might yet reach New Orleans, an easygoing town that asked no questions. He could surely find a job of some sort.

  "Moi? Do you see me as, what, a sauce maker? A pastry cook?" Napoleon thrust his fingers into his vest. "Impossible! Being emperor spoils one for any other trade."

  That instant, cutting through the sea mist, a British warship sped toward us. We were hailed, commanded to heave to, and encouraging us to obey, a cannon blasted a warning shot across our bow. The Gawgon drew Napoleon aside, whispered quickly, then ordered him and the crew amidships to start cleaning tubs of fish. The captain's longboat, meantime, had come alongside; the captain and half a dozen sailors climbed a rope ladder to our deck.

  "Jolly good of you to stop without making us blow you out of the water, haw, haw!" declared the officer. "Got wind of a bit of a plot to spirit away Bony-Party. Deuced inconvenient, sorry, but I'm to search all vessels hereabouts."

  "Search away. We have no emperors aboard." The Gawgon's answer was hairsplitting although technically true, since Napoleon had been deposed. "Only a cargo of fish, as you see."

  "And smell, too, by Jove!" The captain pulled a scented lace handkerchief from his sleeve and waved it under his nose. He glanced sharply at the crew busily gutting fish, and stepped closer. "Fine lot of villainous rascals, wot? This one especially. You there, let's have a look at you."

  It was all The Gawgon and I could do to keep silent as the captain went on:

  "Well, you're as scurvy and scrofulous a fellow as I've ever seen. No emperor, that's for sure. Unless you're the emperor of sardines and anchovies, haw, haw!"