Western Walkabout: The Watcher In The Forest
…to everyone’s astonishment, he transformed into a bright red dragon, gushing his hot bright breath into the wet wood...
Richard Harris tells the tale of a shape-shifter who lived alone in the forest.
He had lived alone in the forest for many years. The trees were his world.
His home was a cave with a sandy floor, a wolf skin draped across the entrance. At the back was a pool, fed from a hot spring, where he bathed and eased his body of aches and pains.
His people had banished him a long time ago, after he had unwisely revealed his great gift, the ability to change shape. He could be a wolf, a panther, a large snake, an eagle, a dragon, and probably other creatures, if he tried hard enough. All it took was patience and the right frame of mind.
His undoing came one night in his home village after a fierce storm had wrecked the huts and extinguished all the fires. The children were cold, miserable and shivering. Some pleaded for their supper. There was nothing but a few soggy crusts.
Ulrik’s heart bled for them. He piled some of the dripping timbers and old branches into a fireplace in the centre of the village, and then to everyone’s astonishment, he transformed into a bright red dragon, gushing his hot bright breath into the wet wood. It ignited in a sheet of flame with great crackles and sparks.
Ulrik turned to beam at the watching women and children but they all screamed in fright at the bright red dragon. He transformed immediately but the damage was done.
The children cowered away from him and the women seized their broomsticks and beat him away.
“You cannot stay here with us, Evil One,” they cried. “Be gone.”
The trees sheltered him and gave him sanctuary. He ate nuts and leaves, fruits and flowers, dug tubers and roasted them with fungi, and over the years managed for himself through foraging.
He was sitting sunning himself outside his cave on a late summer afternoon when he noticed the forest had become unnaturally quiet. Off to the right of the clearing, a jay fled shrieking.
“Ah, visitors,” he thought.
Into the clearing stepped an armed warrior, leading a war party of 30 men.
He noticed Ulrik immediately.
“Ho, Grandfather,” the warrior greeted. “Is there any drinking water hereabouts for my thirsty lads?”
Ulrik saw that they were Southlanders, well out of their own territory, and probably hunting for women. They were notorious for slave trading.
“There is a spring of sweet water a hundred paces from here, with plenty for all,” said Ulrik. “Be my guests.”
“Of course,” said the warrior. “We will take you with us to make sure we have the right spot. We are looking for a village of fair complexioned people – obviously you used to be one of them?”
Ulrik nodded. “Your business, sir?”
“Come on, grandfather. You know what we do. Help us, and you will receive two copper pennies.”
The soldiers all grinned at him.
Ulrik became terribly alarmed and his heightened emotions triggered his gift. He transformed into a great eagle and sprang aloft to disappear above the trees.
“What in hell’s name was that?” yelled the warrior.
His men looked shocked. One of them ventured “A forest demon, lord.”
They filled their waterskins at the spring then returned to the clearing to camp for the night. A full moon rose, and the dog star, Sirius, was in ascendance, foretelling the rising of the waters.
High in the trees above the clearing, a large black panther studied the men with fixed red eyes. It was Ulrik in another form.
That night, the high scream of a hunting cat brought all the men out of their blankets with weapons in their hands.
Another cat answered with a coughing roar from across the clearing.
There was little sleep that night.
The men rose early for breakfast, quickly kindling a small cooking fire in the clearing. Just as the bacon started to sizzle in the pan, there was a savage roar from above.
The men looked up, shielding their eyes against the light.
Out of the sun roared a bright red dragon, shooting gouts of flame from its jaws at the warriors.
The men dropped their weapons and fled in all directions.
One was a youngster in his early teens. It was his first slave raid. He found himself alone and stumbled into Ulrik’s home village.
His hair was all singed, his clothes burnt and he was in shock.
“What happened to you, my son?” asked the village’s headwoman.
The boy gasped out his story.
The villagers all looked around at each other.
“That damned Ulrik is still alive out there in the forest,” one of the women said.
“Small wonder we rarely get any visitors.”
