The Gawgon and the Boy

by Lloyd Alexander

  The captain added other scornful comments, then gaped as the object of this bully ragging leaped to his feet and began shouting insults in return. The knitted cap fell off the man's head, revealing an unmistakable love lock on his brow.

  "Egad! Good heavens, 'pon my word-Bony himself!" The captain immediately ordered his men to seize the fish-gutter, who roared and cursed furiously. While the sailors shackled their raging captive, the officer strode to The Gawgon, accused her of being part of the conspiracy, and threatened to clap her in irons.

  "Why blame me?" The Gawgon innocently replied. "I use whatever crew I can hire, no telling who they are. You know how difficult it is to get help these days."

  "All too true." The captain sighed. "Can't even find a decent butler. What terrible times we live in! Well, then, sail on about your business. Pip-pip, cheerio."

  When the warship was out of sight, The Gawgon whistled through her teeth. From his hiding place in the hold, soaking wet and reeking of fish, climbed Napoleon.

  "An impostor to take my place! A ruse worthy of myself!" he cried. "Those fools will ship him back to Elba before they realize he is not me!"

  "Thank your mamma," said The Gawgon. "I asked her to find someone to pass for you. In case of emergency, it's always good to have a spare emperor."

  "A perfect resemblance," I said to The Gawgon as Napoleon strutted up and down the deck, "but I was worried when he started yelling at the captain. He wasn't speaking French, he was speaking Italian."

  "The British can't tell the difference," The Gawgon said. "If it isn't English, it's all Greek to them."

  The Mediterranean turned choppy; a contrary wind kept us from making rapid headway. But, at last, we sighted the French coast and climbed into the boat's dinghy. The Gawgon and I rowed for shore while Napoleon stood in the bow congratulating himself and scoffing at the English for being such dupes. Too impatient for us to beach our little craft, he jumped out and went sloshing through the surf.

  "I march to Paris immediate," declared Napoleon. "My veteran troops, my loyal and adoring people of France will join me along the way. My empire will rise again. C'est magnifique!

  "I shall put up statues of you both," Napoleon added, "and name our grandest thoroughfares 'Avenue de la Gaugonne' and 'Boulevard du Garcon.'"

  "Don't bother," said The Gawgon. "You '11 have enough on your mind."

  "Do you know a town called Waterloo?" I put in.

  "Of course. In Belgium." Napoleon shrugged. "A mere nothing of a place."

  "Yes, well," I said, "don't go there."

  Thuh End

  "I hear you gave up a trip to the seashore," The Gawgon said, next morning. "That surprises me."

  My mother had dropped me off at the boardinghouse. Since everyone would be home late, I was to sleep over. I told The Gawgon I didn't want to go to Atlantic City and would rather stay with her. "I take that as a high compliment," The Gawgon said. "Yes, Boy, I'm very touched.

  "But fair is fair," she added, after a few moments. "You gave up one holiday. You'll have another." The Gawgon got to her feet. "Lessons can wait. Come along, Boy. We're taking a ride." When I understood what she meant, I still could hardly believe it. The Gawgon was going out of the house.

  10 In the Pale Moonlight

  "Annie, do you think it's wise? Do you really think it's sensible?"

  My grandmother and The Gawgon were talking quietly in the downstairs hall. A closet had produced a wide-brimmed straw hat and a pair of white gloves long unused, smelling of lavender. The Gawgon skewered the hat to her bun of white hair with the longest hat pin I had ever seen and examined the effect in a mirror. Had she been my sister, I would have called it pumping.

  "Mary, can you tell me," The Gawgon said, "have I ever been wise? Have I ever been sensible?"

  "Dr. McKelvie," my grandmother began.

  "Pshaw!" The Gawgon made a final adjustment. "What does he know? The boy's given me anew lease on life, which is more than that pill-roller's done."

  My grandmother watched us from the parlor window as we crossed the porch and The Gawgon picked her way down the front steps. She had armed herself with a cane from the umbrella stand; an ordinary walking stick, but it would not have surprised me to see her unscrew the handle and snatch out a sword blade. For the promised ride, I believed The Gawgon capable of summoning a coach and four, maybe a chariot. What she had in mind was: a bus.

  We waited on the corner. Double-Decker buses ran on Larchmont Street. I loved the upper deck, with the wind whistling, the bus lurching as if about to capsize. When it arrived, I expected her to prefer sitting below, but gripping her cane, The Gawgon climbed the narrow spiral stairway to the heights.

  "Excelsior!" cried The Gawgon as we settled ourselves on a wooden bench. "That means 'higher' in Latin." Ignoring the raised eyebrows of our fellow passengers, she began declaiming:

  The shades of night were falling fast, As through an Alpine village pass'd A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, A banner, with the strange device Excelsior!

  "It goes on and on," said The Gawgon. "I've forgotten most of it, which I count as a blessing. I'm sure it had deep meaning for Henry Wadsworth Longfellow; he was always partial to deep meanings. I happen to think it's one of the silliest poems in the English language."

  The poem "Excelsior," The Gawgon explained, told of a youth with sad brow and flashing eyes hauling a big flag up the Alps. Everyone warned him against avalanches and raging torrents. A village maiden urged him to stay and rest his head on her breast.

  "But no," said The Gawgon, "he kept climbing, holding up his flag, and shouting 'Excelsior!' at every whip stitch. A Saint Bernard found him frozen to death. Now, it's all very commendable trying to reach the heights of anything. But only an idiot would go mountaineering with a flapping big piece of cloth. Nonsense! The fool ended up dead, no use to anyone including himself."

  We climbed off the bus at Fifty-second Street and plunged into a delicious stew of pretzel carts, hot-dog stands, cigar stores, crowded sidewalks, and not one but two movie houses. Aunt Rosie complained it was a loud, impolite street with a lot of suspicious riffraff. I thought it was the most exciting place in the world. I was delighted that, The Gawgon chose to take me there.

  "Off we go to seek our fortune," declared The Gawgon. "To El Dorado, realm of gold." I had no idea what she meant, which only made it more mysterious, and, of course, I would have followed her anywhere. It took The Gawgon a short while to find a shop just off Fifty-second Street. The only things close to gold were three brass balls hanging over the door.

  Before we entered, she swore me to secrecy:

  "I could have asked your father to sell my little trinket in his store, but he'd have fussed at me and bought it himself charitably. This is nobody's business but mine. So, not a word to anyone."

  I solemnly swore and we went inside. The Gawgon held up her skirts to keep them off the sticky floor. The place smelled like old mushrooms. Yet it was a kind of El Dorado, jam-packed with guitars, banjos, fiddles, racks of clothing, bins of household goods. The showcase displayed watches, jewelry, and a number of military medals.

  From her purse, The Gawgon took a small brooch and motioned me to move back. She stepped up 'to a heavy-jowled, flinty-eyed man who did not look friendly. Without knowing why, I felt embarrassed for her, and for myself, a little queasy. Their conversation was some sort of business between adults, and I should not be listening. The Gawgon, undaunted, rapped her knuckles on the counter top:

  "My dear sir, I'll thank you not to take me for a fool," she said. "The gold alone is worth more than that." The man grumbled, but under The Gawgon's unwavering eyes, he finally shrugged and took some dollar bills from his cash drawer. The Gawgon handed over the brooch, accepted a receipt, and we left.

  "That, Boy, is a pawnshop," The Gawgon said as we headed back to Fifty-second Street. "Not a nice kind of place, but sooner or later, you'll find there's a seamy side of life. It's where poor people borrow money and leave something be
hind. When they come to repay, they get their property again. Otherwise, the pawnbroker sells it. I don't intend coming back.

  "What I do intend," she added, "is spending it all like a drunken sailor." Of everything I could imagine The Gawgon being, drunken sailor was not one. As for spending, she indeed led us on a daylong spree.

  First, we went to the fancier of the two picture palaces. It featured a vaudeville show: a magician, a dancing dog, and spangled ladies kicking up their legs to the boops and yawps of the Wurlitzer organ. I made little sense of the movie that followed: mostly men in tuxedos and women in slippery gowns gazing at each other through drooping eyelids. Nobody got killed or maimed.

  "I'd forgotten they talk now," The Gawgon said behind her hand: "More's the pity. There's too much yammering already."

  Still, that would have been treat enough in itself. But The Gawgon had more in mind. After the movie, she found a combination bookstore and stationery store. There, she bought some books-their titles were unfamiliar to me, but she assured me I would like them and we would read them together later. As well, she bought a deck of cards with letters instead of jacks, queens, and kings. "Anagrams," The Gawgon said. "You deal them out and try to make words."

  The spending spree ended when we went to a hot-dog and orange-juice stand. The Gawgon drew some attention from the other customers. Seeing her straw hat with its huge pin, her long black skirts, white gloves, and cane, they probably expected more genteel behavior, but The Gawgon chomped her hot dog with carefree abandon.

  "McKelvie should see me now." The Gawgon had a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Pass the relish, Boy, if you please." We rode the bus back to Larchmont Street, belching triumphantly in the gathering dusk. My grandmother was as relieved to see us as if we had been on a perilous expedition up the Alps or down the Amazon. The Gawgon went to her room for a nap I was too excited to rest. True to my word, I said nothing of the pawnshop, yet alone with my grandmother, I wanted to ask about something that lingered, troublesome, in my head.

  I had the impression Dr. McKelvie would not have approved of our outing. I was curious to know why. But I did not ask. The young did not question the mysterious lives of their elders. Instead, that night, I stretched out on my cot and drifted away to Switzerland.

  THE HEIGHTS OF THE MATTERHORN

  The shades of night were falling fast when The Gawgon and I reached a little village high in the Alps. Lamps already glowed cozily; the villagers were snug indoors. The Gawgon, brushing ice pellets from her cloak, stepped through the door of the local inn. I followed, carrying the long staff and its huge banner embroidered with a single word in fancy curlicues: EXCELSIOR.

  During our ascent through mountain mist and drizzle, the banner had grown so damp and heavy we were obliged to take turns carrying it. The Gawgon, outfitted like myself in leather breeches and hobnailed boots, coils of rope at our shoulders, ice axes at our belts, called for hot cider. I looked around for some place to park the cumbersome burden and finally leaned it against the serving counter, where it dripped a large puddle of ice water.

  "Mein Cott!" The innkeeper paled when The Gawgon told him our destination. "The peak of the Matterhorn? This time of year? Not possible!"

  "Possible or not," The Gawgon declared, "The Boy and I have an urgent mission. We must accomplish it at all cost."

  As the innkeeper warned against this foolhardy venture, mentioning avalanches, raging torrents, and gaping chasms, his beautiful daughter approached me.

  "O youth with flashing eyes," she said winsomely, "what signifies this banner and its strange device? An advertisement for some new product? Breakfast cereal, perhaps, like Swiss muesli?" At a loss to offer satisfactory explanation, I could only say our task was of utmost importance.

  "Ach, nein!" The maiden clasped her hands. "Do not to your doom go! With me here stay and rest." She batted her eyelashes and cast me a sidelong glance. "I will let you my cuckoo clock wind up."

  Though tempted, I politely declined. The Gawgon finished her cider and we set off again, climbing ever upward through the night. The peak glinted icily in the pale moonlight, bone chilling gales swept from the heights. Barely halfway up the slope, The Gawgon halted. Before us yawned a deep crevasse.

  "We can't climb down one side and up the other." The Gawgon, chin in hand, made mental calculations. "A little too wide to jump across. Very well, Boy, furl that silly flag. Give it here."

  I did as she asked. The Gawgon took the flagstaff and, with perfect precision, tipped it lengthwise across the chasm, where it lay like a bridge-but a bridge no wider than a tightrope. "No, we won't dance across like acrobats," she said, when I asked if that was her intention. "More like a couple of monkeys."

  As she ordered, we flung away our rucksacks and other gear to lighten our weight. The Gawgon then leaped into the crevasse, deftly caught hold of the flagstaff, and hand over hand, swung along its length and heaved herself up on the far edge.

  I tried to do likewise, but a frosty film already covered the staff. One hand slipped. I hung, dangling and kicking, until I regained my grasp then swung my way across, never daring to look down until The Gawgon pulled me safely to my feet.

  Retrieving the flag, I clambered after The Gawgon, ever higher. Despite the bitter cold, I was drenched with sweat, which quickly froze. I crackled with ice inside and outside my clothing. All that night, we pressed upward. One last assault and we would gain the pinnacle.

  Our perils had not ended. Deep rumblings shook the mountainside. Snowdrifts as big as Swiss chalets careened downward. We scurried out of their path as they roared by. But no sooner did we think ourselves safe than a giant snowball hurtled straight at The Gawgon.

  She had no time to dodge as it bounced down the slope. Without a moment's thought, summoning all my strength, I flung the flagstaff like a spear. The tip of the staff struck the sphere on its upward bounce. The impact jarred the titanic snowball of it's deadly course, and it landed harmlessly a few feet away. With the flagstaff sticking out of it, it looked like a huge vanilla lollipop.

  "Well, Boy, I do believe you saved my life," said The Gawgon as I pulled the staff loose. "I appreciate that. Hurry along now. One avalanche is enough."

  Just before daybreak, we made our final ascent. Stars filled the sky, but they began winking out as pink streaks rose above the Alpine range. A figure stood at the top of the Matterhorn. Wrapped in an overcoat, its collar turned up to his ears, he stamped his feet and beat his arms against his sides. His bushy white beard had frozen stiff Despite the muffler around his neck and the hat jammed down tight on his head, I recognized him from a portrait I had seen in one of The Gawgon's books.

  It was Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. "What took you so long?" he called out in a peevish voice. He pointed his frozen beard accusingly at us. "I've been waiting all night; I could have caught my death of cold."

  "Don't take that tone with me, Henry," retorted The Gawgon. "You asked me to do you a favor, and I did. Here's your flag. Good-bye. The Boy and I are going home."

  Without so much as a word of thanks, Longfellow impatiently unfurled the banner. One hand behind his back, the other clutching the staff, he cast his eyes heavenward, lost in solemn contemplation of the vast panorama.

  The Gawgon motioned for me to begin the downward climb. I hung back. "As long as we're here," I said to her, "I want to ask him: Really, what does all this mean? I don't understand the point of it."

  "Let him alone," said The Gawgon. "Poets don't like to be questioned, especially when they don't know the answers."

  Thuh End

  Something woke me. I must have been tossing and turning on the cot, the sheets were tangled around my legs. Moonlight shone through the parlor windows. With a cloth draping her cage, Nora slept peacefully. I heard a soft shuffling; a floorboard creaked in the upstairs hall.

  I got up and went cautiously out of the dining room. The flight of stairs led directly into the parlor. It was bright enough for me to see a white shape on the landing. It halted
for a few seconds, then floated down the steps. It was Captain Jack in his underwear.

  My grandmother had warned me never to wake him up when he was having one of his spells, so I stood there holding my breath. I hoped he would turn around and go back upstairs.

  Captain Jack moved steadily through the parlor, heading straight for Nora's cage. Frozen to the spot, I could do nothing to stop him. He took another pace and lurched against the stand. It toppled over; the cage crashed to the floor.

  11 Toys in the Cellar

  Nora beat her wings against the bars of the overturned cage. Her water c, up spilled, her sunflower seeds scattered over the rug. She screamed at the top of her voice. Captain Jack began screaming, too. Upstairs, someone switched on the parlor lights. My grandmother and The Gawgon, in their summer nightgowns, came down the steps. I could only think of setting the cage upright and covering it with the cloth. It did not quiet her. Captain Jack crouched on the floor amid the sunflower seeds, knees tucked under his chin, hands pressed against his ears. He was howling like a wolf. My grandmother, in tears, circled around him, begging him to be calm. She seemed afraid to go any closer. The Gawgon moved quickly. White hair unbraided and hanging every which way, she went straight to him, knelt, and held him in her arms. "Call McKelvie," she said sharply to my grandmother, and to me, "Go stay in the kitchen."

  I obeyed, partially. I stopped in the middle of the dining room. Despite myself, I could not turn my eyes away. The Gawgon was stroking Captain Jack's head and rocking him back and forth.

  It was dawn by the time Dr. McKelvie came, tousled, coat unbuttoned, without a cravat. Still in The Gawgon's arms, Captain Jack had stopped screaming and was merely sobbing. Dr. McKelvie opened his bag; I glimpsed a hypodermic needle in his hand. "That's all I can do," he said to my grandmother. "I'll call the ambulance."

  I ventured to the edge of the parlor. My grandmother went upstairs to fetch a bathrobe for Captain Jack. He was quiet now, but in spite of the injection, his eyes were wide open, the whites showing all around. When he happened to turn his head in my direction, he stared as if he had never seen me in all his life. I kept hoping he would at least recognize me; it had not been long ago when we listened to opera arias, when he called me "First Sergeant." and poured pancake syrup from a tin log cabin.