One day Girard spied a new human settlement, deep in the forest. He knew he should stay clear, but it happened to be one of his favorite forests, so he remained to see what was going on. It turned out that the beerbarrel trees of this region were especially potent, and the man who was tapping them was hauling the beer to a distant village.
He kept the secret of the trees' location so that only he could tap them. Realizing that, Girard was satisfied, because it meant that no more humans would be coming here, and it would still be safe for giants as long as they watched out for this one homestead.
One evening there was trouble in the human house. It seemed the little boy had gotten into the cookie jar when he wasn't supposed to, and eaten them all, so that no one else could have any until the cookie bush in the family garden could grow more. He was sent to his room for the day as punishment.
But the boy, rebellious, sneaked out his window and ran away. Girard, watching invisibly, shook his head; he knew children were not supposed to do that. He watched the boy slink into the forest. Because night was coming, the forest was dangerous for small creatures; the spooks of the evening were always alert for helpless victims.
The little boy, naturally, soon repented his action. But it was too late: he had gotten himself lost. As night closed he gave up and curled up against a hoarse chestnut and went to sleep. It seemed that the heavy breathing of the wind through the leaves of the tree lulled him.
Predators closed from every side. Girard, looking down from above, could see them. The boy would shortly be a morsel; the only question was which predator would reach him first, and whether he would get in one good scream or none as he was chomped and swallowed.
So Girard, meddlesome as always, succumbed to his nuisance of a do-gooding instinct. He reached down and carefully picked up the sleeping boy before any predator could chomp him. He carried the boy back to his family's house and set him on the doormat. Then he used the tips of his fingers, and with the most delicate touch pried up the roof over the boy's bedroom. When he had the house open at that point, he lifted the boy again and set him on his bed in his room. Then he squeezed the house shut again, slowly, hardly making a sound. The boy was back where he belonged, and no one the wiser; when he woke in the morning he would think he had dreamed his running away, and with luck his folks might never know he had been gone.
Then Girard returned to the place where the boy had fallen asleep. He put his hand down by the hoarse chestnut tree and piled some dead leaves around the fingers, so that they might be mistaken for a sleeping form. The first predator to pounce on that would receive a surprise! Girard didn't plan to really hurt the creature, just shake it around a bit to discourage it from going after any more sleeping boys.
But the predators were smarter than he. They smelled the difference between Boy and Giant, and stayed clear.
Girard realized this only later, after his little trap failed.
At the time he didn't know, and while he waited in perfect silence he fell into boredom, and then into sleep himself.
Thus his trap became a nap.
A night mare approached, bearing a bad dream intended for the bad human boy who had run away from home. She was Mare Crisium, Cris for short, and she was behind schedule and very rushed. The gourd was short-hoofed this night; several mares were getting their hooves trimmed, so their burden of dreams had to be carried by others. Thus Cris did not pause to verify the identity of the dreamer; the boy was supposed to be here and someone was here, so she kicked in the dream and galloped off for the next subject. She was later to get her tail severely tweaked for that error, but that was another story.
So it was that Girard dreamed the dream intended for the boy. It would have terrified the boy, but it had a rather different effect on the giant. The first part was routine: a brief rehearsal of the boy's flight from home. Then came the main entre:
A huge female figure loomed, garbed vaguely like the boy's mother. “Bad boy! Bad boy!” she screamed, her voice echoing like thunder. “When I catch you—!!”
The boy, of course, was supposed to cringe in fear and plead for mercy. He knew he deserved the punishment, and feared it horribly. But Girard gazed at the giantess, and saw there the woman of his dreams. The boy's dream, technically, but still a remarkably wonderful creature. He was smitten instantly with love for her.
The huge hand of the giantess reached down to catch the scruff of the boy's neck. Girard could not restrain himself; he took hold of that hand and kissed it with a resounding smack.
For a moment the giantess looked surprised. Then the dream censor cut in: TILT! TILT! ABORT! ABORT!
In a moment the dream dissipated, and Girard woke, He knew what had happened: he had reacted in a way the human boy never would have, and that had tilted the dream the wrong way and caused it to self-destruct. The night mares were very possessive of their dreams; they wanted none of them getting into the wrong hands. He had given an erroneous signal and ruined it.
That lovely giantess was gone! Truly, it had become a bad dream for him, because he would have given anything to have seen more of her. Where did she live? How had she come to participate in the dream? How could he find her?
From that moment his directionless life was over; he had a quest. He had to find that giantess!
He asked everywhere, but none of the other giants knew where she might be. None had even heard of her. “Must be from some other tribe,” one said. “After all, she was visible.”
“She was in a dream; the rules are different there,” Girard pointed out.
“True. Maybe you should inquire in the realm of dreams.”
That seemed like an excellent notion. The realm of dreams was in the gourd, as everyone knew. Anyone could enter that realm, merely by looking in the peephole of any hypnogourd. The problem was that the person could not leave until some other party interrupted the contact of eye and peephole. That could become awkward.
Girard considered. He could ask another giant to stand by and cut off his view into the gourd. But the problem was that the outside giant could not know when the time was right; Girard might be on the verge of discovering the giantess, only to be cut off and never find her again. He really did not know much about the gourd, so did not know what rules operated. Maybe there was some way to break the contact from inside, so that it would be under his own control. He decided that since he would rather die than be without the giantess, he might as well take the risk of dying in order to make the best possible search for her.
He went to a private forest that had a glade where a hypnogourd plant grew. He lay down on his stomach between the trees, wriggling to fit, and propped his chin next to the gourd. He moved the gourd around until the peephole was about to come into view. Then, chin still propped, he closed his eyes and set the gourd firmly in place.
He opened his eyes. One eye found the peephole.
He was inside the gourd. He knew it was only his soul self, not his physical body, but he felt the same, and would not have known better had he not known better.
He was in a jungle. The trees were so big that they were slightly taller even than himself, and that was certainly the tip off that this was not the real land of Xanth. They were solid, too; as hard as rock maple, by the feel of their trunks, or ironwood. It hadn't occurred to him that anything in the dream realm could be that solid, but obviously it was.
Something tickled his bare toes. He looked down and saw that giant vines were curling over them. They looked like krakan weed tentacles, with big suckers. A sucker clamped onto a toe with a slurping sound.
There was pain. It took a while to travel all the way from his toe to his head, but it was authoritative when it arrived. “Youch!” he bellowed.
In response, another sucker clamped on, with another slurp. They were sucking his blood!
Girard didn't have to stand for that! He bent down and pinched the first vine between his fingers, pulling it off his toe. But it refused to let go. The sucker sucked so tightly that it thre
atened to rip the skin off with it. After a moment, doubled pain reached Girard's brain: it hurt to pull on that vine!
Meanwhile, more were rustling in, their suckers questing for firm flesh. Soon his feet would be food for the vines, and he would be unable to stop it because it hurt too much to pull them off!
Girard reacted as giants do: he lifted his free foot and stomped. The vines caught below it were squished flat. They wriggled a moment, then expired.
He stomped again, this time right beside his caught foot. “Take that, sucker!” he cried.
A few more stomps flattened all the vines around him. The suckers, deprived of their stems, lost suction and fell away, to be stomped in turn. It served them right.
Girard walked on. He wondered whether the giantess— he thought of her as Gina, because that was the way she had looked in the dream—had come this way and been trapped and forced to work for the night mares in the bad dreams. If so, he was on the right track.
He came to a great halfway flat plain. Ahead of him a cloud formed, expanding rapidly. It was an ugly cloud, with mean curlicues at its edges and a droll gray face.
He recognized that cloud! It was Cumulo Fracto Nimbus, the worst freak of nature in Xanth. Fracto termed himself the King of Clouds, but he was just hot air, always up to mischief.
Fracto formed a mouth and blew out a blast of wind.
Hot air? This was freezing! Girard stepped back, shivering. But Fracto followed, blasting him with sleet-laden gales. Snow swirled around him, turning his skin purple with cold. Soon he would be frozen by the ill wind!
Again, Girard reacted as a giant should. He inhaled hugely, then blew out a blast of his own. He blew that cloud topsy-turvy; Fracto's bulbous misty face turned upside down.
Fracto was so angry that lightning bolts shot out of his bottom. But they did no harm, because his nether side was aiming at the sky. A few incoming sunbeams were dislocated, to their great annoyance, but that was all.
Before Fracto could right himself, Girard blew again.
This time the cloud was sent rolling across the sky with the sound of infuriated thunder. Girard kept blowing until the cloud was out of sight. So much for that nuisance!
He walked on. He hoped Gina had not been frozen by the cloud. Women were less blowhardy than men, so she might not have been able to blow Fracto away.
A new shape was coming across the plain. It loomed hugely. It was a sphinx—one of the few creatures structured on the scale of a giant. Usually sphinxes just sat in the sand and snoozed, but they could be ornery when aroused, and this one seemed aroused. Better to avoid it.
Girard turned away. But there coming up behind him was a roc—one of the few other creatures able to compete with giants. The big bird looked mean.
More shapes were coming from other directions. This promised to get nasty! Girard lumbered into a run, taking such huge strides that the animals and birds were left behind. But not far behind; they pursued him relentlessly.
He came to a wall across the plain. If he stopped at it, the aggressive creatures would catch him, and he wasn't sure that would be very comfortable. So he ran right through it.
The wall cracked into jagged fragments and fell aside.
Beyond it was a lovely pool with twenty lovesick mermaids. They screamed as Girard's foot landed in the water, splashing a third of it out.
Girard brought himself to a halt, standing in the pool.
“What happened?” he asked, bewildered.
“You incredible oaf, you crashed through a setting divider!” a mermaid screamed. “We were just rehearsing for our scene, and you ruined it!”
“Your scene?” Girard asked stupidly.
“Our dream scene! We are scheduled to love a misogynist to death. He's supposed to fall in the pool, and we'll—but how can we do that when you've splashed out all our water?” She flexed her tail angrily.
“A setting divider?” he asked, equally stupidly.
“Do you think our space is limitless? We have to make good use of it! You're supposed to stay on your side of the divider in your own setting, and us in ours. But you crashed through! How will we ever get this scene in shape in time?”
He looked at her. She was tiny, in the human fashion, with her wet hair flung across her face and shoulders, but her shape was definitely there.
Then a black stallion appeared beside the pool. What is the meaning of this? the horse demanded speechlessly.
“This—this giant just barged in here and ruined our rehearsal!” the mermaid expostulated. “Look at our set, Night Stallion! We have a deadline—”
The horse's eyes nickered as if lighted from inside. Suddenly the broken wall was restored; in fact there seemed to be no wall at all, just the pool and a decorative garden beyond. The water was restored so that the pool was full.
“Eeeek!” a mermaid cried. “Here comes the misogynist! Get that giant out of here!”
Immediately the mermaids were assuming their places around the pool, brushing their wild wet tresses. The lead maid heaved herself up on a rock and inhaled, making her shape even more definite.
Then the setting disappeared, and Girard found himself on a featureless plain. He was disappointed; he had been curious to see how the mermaids would love the misogynist to death. Somehow it did not sound like a bad way to go. He wondered just what kind of creature a misogynist was.
It is a man who hates women, the stallion said, appearing before him. Of course the real one is not here; the maids must address a stand-in while the dream is recorded. Then when the dream is carried to the real misogynist, it will be realistic enough to give him his most horrible fright.
Oh. Now Girard understood. Still, he wondered about the details of it. Surely not more than one or two mermaids at a time could—
What brought you here? the stallion demanded.
Girard explained about the lovely giantess he had seen in the boy's dream. “I must meet her,” he concluded. “I know she is the one woman for me!”
You fool! She is a mere figment!
“A what?”
An illusion. A construct for one use only. A piece of temporary scenery. She has no larger existence.
“But I saw her!”
You saw a dream figure, which dissipated with the dream. Beyond that she is little but a bad memory.
“But the mermaids are dream figures, and they are real, aren't they?” Girard asked.
The mermaids are regulars. They act in numerous settings. There are many calls for mermaids, even in bad dreams, but few for giantesses. The one you saw was what we term an ad hoc figment: an image generated for a single use only. Forget her; she is nothing.
“She's not nothing!” Girard protested. “I love her!”
You are an idiot. Go back where you came from, and don't bother us again.
Giants were not, as a class, smart, but they did not really like being called idiots. Girard began to heat up.
“You mean I can't meet Gina?”
The stallion snorted derisively. You even have a name for her? Go home, oaf!
That did it. Girard got mad. He stood up straight, looked around, and saw only emptiness. But he knew that was mostly illusion. If he ran any distance, he would crash through another barrier. That would serve this arrogant horse right—and he might even be able to find Gina somewhere too, for he just knew she had to exist; after all, he had seen her!
He lumbered into a run, making the plain tremble. Sure enough, after only a few steps he crashed through a barrier. The featureless plain extended only a short distance before it became walls that were painted to resemble more featureless plain. It was a good illusion, but this was no dream; he could strike these walls and break them down.
Beyond the wall was a new setting: a house made of candy. It looked good enough to eat, and would make several mouthfuls for him, but he had been warned about this: eat nothing in the dream realm because it could lock him into it forever. He had his own supplies of crackers, cheese, and grog, and would ea
t those when he got hungry. So he ignored the house and lunged on.
Soon he broke through another barrier. The painted candy cane backdrop fell away, and he stepped into a nest of writhing tentacles. He slogged through them and broke through into a hillside teeming with goblins. They raised an outraged outcry at his intrusion, but he slogged on. He didn't care what the horse said about figments; Gina must be here somewhere, and he would batter down every partition until he found her!
He broke into an ocean setting. The stallion appeared, standing on the water as if it were solid. That does it, giant! I'm putting you under restraint!
“Go ram a bad dream under your tail!” Girard exclaimed heatedly, for the exertion added to his anger was making him very hot. He tramped on.
He crashed through another partition. This one contained an ogre bearing a pointed stick. (Ogres weren't smart enough to use spears). “Then die, monster!” the ogre grunted, and hurled the stick at him.
It struck Girard in the side. That stung, so he caught it between his thumb and forefinger and yanked it out. It was no more than a splinter, really, but it ripped a hole in his side, and his blood poured out. He was about to reach for the magic bandage in his front pocket.
Then, abruptly, he was flat on his back in a new setting, and strings tied his body down. He was unable to sit up.
The stallion reappeared. You have misbehaved. Giant, the horse said. You have wreaked havoc, and must suffer in consequence. You will remain bound until some innocent creature who knows nothing of your situation frees you. You must offer that creature a reward three times, and if it accepts any of those times, all will be nulled and he will be unable to free you. Fare ill, oaf!
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