King of the Scepter'd Isle (Song of Earth)

by Coney, Michael G.

“What do you mean, composing himself?” In Miggot-like fashion, Fang grabbed the Thinking Gnome by the lapels. “Composing himself for what?”

  The Miggot himself arrived at that moment. “Nobody informed me of this meeting,” he said, staring around accusingly. “What kind of leadership is this, Bison?”

  “Composing himself for the inevitable, as must we all.”

  “We all must? I’m a couple of hundred years away from composing myself, Spector, you damned fool,” said the Miggot, rapidly grasping the flow of conversation.

  “All dead,” said Jack sadly, recalling the original purpose of his visit. “Every one of them dead.”

  “Nobody’s dead,” said the Miggot firmly. “And if they were, it would be perfectly acceptable. Gnomes live, gnomes die. The young are strong, the middle-aged are clever, but the old are stupid and feeble and must be gotten rid of. Death is good. If it wasn’t for death, we’d be knee-deep in senile gnomes, whimpering and babbling like the Gooligog. The same applies to all living creatures.”

  “It doesn’t apply to the rabbits, Miggot. They were in the prime of life.”

  “That’s why they’re not dead, Jack.”

  “But they are dead, Miggot.”

  The Miggot eyed him closely. “By the Great Grasshopper, it’s bad enough with Spector talking garbage. Don’t you start, Jack.”

  Fang said loudly and clearly, “A giant and a dog broke into the rabbit enclosure this afternoon. They killed all the rabbits.”

  “I knew it,” said Poxy. “It was bound to happen.”

  The other gnomes had been stunned into silence, but now a chorus of questions arose. “What giant? What dog? What do you mean, killed all the rabbits?” Others began to drift into the clearing, obeying that mysterious forest instinct that alerts gnomes when something interesting is afoot. “What enclosure? When? Why?”

  Drexel Poxy leapt astride his steed, dominating the throng. “The giants have slaughtered our string of riding rabbits, just as I warned you they would. They have immobilized us!”

  Bart o’ Bodmin, newly arrived, cried, “The Gnome from the North speaks!”

  The Gnome from the North speaks. … The words traveled from gnome to gnome, into the forest.

  “He foretold it, and now it’s come to pass!” yelled Bart. Gnomes nodded at one another. They should have listened to the Gnome from the North sooner. The Gnome from the North had mysterious powers. Everything he’d said was coming true.

  “I don’t remember Poxy foretelling anything,” Fang remarked to the Miggot.

  “Hush,” somebody said. “The Gnome from the North is about to speak again.”

  “Fang’s right!” shouted the Miggot. “That bastard never foretold a bloody thing!”

  “Hush!” cried a score of voices.

  “This is our darkest hour!” shouted Bart o’ Bodmin.

  “Our darkest hour,” droned the gnomes obediently.

  “Our darkest hour was weeks ago!” yelled the Miggot, purple with frustration. “What’s gotten into you all? Our darkest hour was when Tom Grog got himself squashed and the beer ran out. We all agreed on that!”

  “Our darkest hour!” roared Poxy in a voice worthy of Bison himself. “And it could have been prevented, because we were warned. The giants have reduced us to mere crawlers on the forest floor, little better than toads. Alas! Alas!”

  “Alas!” cried the gnomes.

  “But all is not lost!”

  “Aha!” chorused the gnomes hopefully.

  “What’s happened to them?” asked Fang. “What’s he doing to them?” Drexel Poxy seemed to have gained in stature as he sat astride his white rabbit, holding his cap aloft, exposing a balding, freckled pate and raking the throng with blazing eyes.

  “Mass hypnosis,” said Spector, standing near. “It’s a giantish practice. I’ve never heard of it used on gnomes.”

  “Our salvation lies south!” bellowed Poxy, pointing with his cap.

  “South!” cried the gnomes.

  “What’s the answer, Spector?” asked Fang, alarmed. “What shall we do?”

  “South!” shouted Spector, eyes fixed raptly on the Gnome from the North.

  “Miggot?”

  “I don’t know.” For once the feisty little gnome was at a loss. “He’s got them in the palm of his hand, Fang. He seems to be able to do anything he wants with them.”

  “The Gnome from the North will lead us south,” cried Bart o’ Bodmin, “as it was foretold!”

  Help came unexpectedly.

  “Like h-hell he will!” It was Bison, making his stand in obedience to a ferocious prodding from Lady Duck.

  “Do you defy the Gnome from the North?” asked Bart incredulously.

  Bison hung his head. Lady Duck shouldered him aside. “You’re damned right he does,” she roared. “And you can forget the Gnome from the North stuff too. His name’s Drexel Poxy, and that ought to tell you something. Look at him! A dirty little gnome on a blind rabbit. When did he last comb his beard? If you can call it a beard. It looks more like trailing moss to me!”

  Spector snapped out of his trance. “Look, there’s a cockroach crawling in it!” he cried shrewdly.

  The gnomes clustered close. “Where? Where?”

  “The Gnome from the North is a friend and host to all living creatures!” shouted Bart quickly.

  Meanwhile Poxy was slapping at his beard. “Get that bloody thing off me, Bart!”

  “There is no roach, Drexel. It was irresponsible slander.”

  “Our rabbits are gone,” shouted Poxy hastily, “and Tom Grog is dead. What next? How many murderous deeds must we suffer before we learn that giants and gnomes cannot live together in the forest. Huh? Huh?” Surreptitiously he clawed at his beard, convinced of a tickling sensation. “Don’t think I’m blaming the giants. There are both good and bad among them. As is the case with all living creatures.”

  “It isn’t the case with doodads, you fool!” called Lady Duck.

  “There is a place for us all on this world: gnomes, giants, and doodads. Each has his niche. Our particular niche lies south, where the warm breezes blow in from the sea, where the land is soft and sandy, where there is no concealing undergrowth and gnomes and giants can see one another clearly and live together in safety and harmony and happiness!”

  “Are you talking about the beach? You want us to live on the beach?”

  “Well, yes, the beach,” said Poxy in more normal tones. “I’ve talked to the giants, and they’ll help us set up a nice little place there, and make sure we don’t run short of anything, and so on. We’ll all be looked after. We’ll help them and they’ll help us. Hand in hand”—he resumed his public voice—”gnomes and giants will march forward to a new tomorrow!”

  “A new tomorrow!” echoed Bart. “Peace and plenty by the sea! The founding of a new gnomedom!”

  “But we’ve only just founded this gnomedom,” said Bison, puzzled.

  “You founded it in the wrong place,” said the Gnome from the North kindly. “It could happen to anyone. Fresh information is now available, and a new agreement has been reached with the giants.”

  “But shouldn’t I have been the one to reach that agreement? I’m supposed to be our leader, aren’t I?”

  “I reached it on your behalf, Bison.”

  “Oh, that’s all right, then. I’m sorry. For a moment I thought—”

  “It’s perfectly all right, Bison.”

  “Gather up your belongings, gnomes!” shouted Bart o’ Bodmin. “Load up your rabbits and the Gnome from the North will lead you south!”

  There was a noticeable hesitation. “You mean, right now?” somebody asked.

  “The forest will tremble to the thud of rabbits’ paws,” shouted Poxy. “In ones and twos we will trickle along the byways, joining each other in a steady stream down the forest paths, uniting, mounting until a great flood of gnomes will escape from the darkness and dangers of the forest to begin a new life at the margin of the mighty ocean! S
outh!”

  “South!” came the answering cry from a fair number of gnomish throats. Yelling with excitement and anticipation, they hurried off into the forest.

  About half the gathering remained. Drexel Poxy sat astride his rabbit, gazing inscrutably at Fang and the Princess of the Willow Tree, the Miggot of One and Elmera, King Bison and Lady Duck, Clubfoot Trimble, Spector the Thinking Gnome, Jack o’ the Warren, Wal the Bottle, Broyle the Blaze, and some two dozen other gnomes standing unhappily in little groups. As the silence lengthened, the Gooligog emerged haltingly from the trees.

  “What’s going on?” he asked querulously. “Nobody told me there was a meeting.”

  “Are you joining us, Gooligog?” asked Poxy.

  “Are they joining you?” the ex-Memorizer asked, pointing a skinny finger at the remaining gnomes.

  “No.”

  “Then I’ll join you,” said the Gooligog. “Join you in what?” he asked, wondering what he’d let himself in for.

  “In founding a new gnomedom. You will be our official Memorizer.”

  The Gooligog smiled a rare smile and left the clearing with a new spring in his step.

  “And you, Jack,” continued Poxy, “you have no rabbits now. Will you come with us? We can promise you a good life, and I have word that we shall have a new kind of animal for you to look after.”

  Jack shot a sheepish look at Fang. “A new animal? What does it do to you?”

  “Nothing, Jack. This is a great and harmless animal called the tump. It has been in use in other gnomish settlements for generations, and we propose to bring it to Mara Zion. Well, not exactly bring it,” he said, correcting himself, “because it moves very slowly and we haven’t got forever. We will create it for you, Jack.”

  “With what?” asked the Miggot.

  “With the Sharan, of course.”

  “I’m in charge of the Sharan.”

  Poxy eyed the sharp-nosed gnome. “Exactly.”

  “Well, I’m not coming with you to the beach. I’m staying here.”

  “You surprise me, Miggot. I’d always thought you were discontented with life in the forest.”

  “I’m a naturally discontented gnome,” the Miggot snarled. “I don’t need an object for my discontent. I’d be just as discontented at the beach as I am here. And I don’t propose to move, now that I’m settled in at the blasted oak. There’s something about the blasted oak that suits my simple requirements. I’m staying.”

  “Good for you, Miggot!” shouted Fang. There was a ragged cheer from the others.

  Poxy scrutinized them coldly. “It is not right that the Sharan should be in the hands of an effete and dwindling group of gnomes. The Sharan is a symbol of gnomish progress and duty. She must be properly handled by gnomes who know which life-forms are required in this new world of ours. You must hand her over, Miggot.”

  “Absolutely not, Poxy.”

  There was a rumbling of agreement and Poxy suddenly became aware that he faced some thirty hostile gnomes. “Bugger you, then!” he cried. “You’ll suffer for this!”

  And so saying, he whirled his rabbit around and ran full tilt into an elm.

  “Leave him there,” said the Miggot. “We have more important matters to consider. We will reconvene at the blasted oak!”

  “Shouldn’t I have said that?” Bison asked Lady Duck privately. “I’m the one who’s supposed to call meetings, surely?”

  “Gnomedom has come to a pretty pass, Bison,” his wife said unhappily.

  10

  WEDDING DAY

  NYNEVE HEARD FOOTSTEPS ON THE FOREST PATH AND brushed away her tears impatiently. She would not show any signs of weakness on this particular day. Her misery gnawed at her heart like a hungry beast, unappeasable. Perhaps the answer lay in death. One day, when they found her body pale and lifeless in some lonely forest dell, they would be sorry. He would be sorry. He might even cry a little.

  “Well, hello, Nyneve. Hello, hello!”

  Merlin shuffled toward her, rubbing his hands together in that irritating fashion that always made her think he was limbering up to grab her. After the thousands of years he had lived, wasn’t the flame of his libido due to flicker out?

  “Go away, please, Merlin. I’m thinking.”

  “And crying, too, I’ll be bound.” He crept around her as she turned away, and peered up into her face. She was a good inch taller than he, but this hadn’t prevented him from trying to overpower her in the past. “This is a sad day for you, young Nyneve. A day for thinking. A day for hard decisions. Forget him, Nyneve. He’s let you down.”

  “He’s …” She choked, then continued. “He’s just fulfilling what he thinks is his destiny. And it’s all my fault. I put Gwen in the story. And today he’s going to marry her. And I love him more than anyone in the world. Oh, God!” She managed a laugh. “What a bloody stupid mess I’ve gotten myself into!”

  He sidled closer. “I could make you happier.”

  “You!”

  “You could close your eyes. Imagine it’s him.”

  “That’s disgusting! Don’t you ever give up, Merlin?” She whirled around on him, eyes like hard black stones, and seized him by the throat. “I’ve a good mind to just squeeze the life out of you, you old goat. That’ll make the world a better place, if not a happier one!”

  He twisted away. “It’s not natural,” he shouted, “tormenting a man like this! How do you think I feel, seeing you around the cottage every day? It’s enough to drive a man crazy, all this frustration!”

  “Then turn yourself into a gnome. They think sex is horrible—and right now, so do I!”

  “Well, I happen to enjoy it, what I remember of it. I’m happy to be a man. Or at least,” he said, correcting himself, “a Paragon.”

  “According to Avalona, Paragons are perfect creatures, a part of Starquin just like Dedos.”

  “But in the male form.” He leered. “With all that implies.”

  She stared at him furiously. The wedding would be in progress by now, and in due course Arthur and the vapid Gwen would be in bed together, romping happily between clean white sheets. How had she let this happen? She knew the legend, so she should have been ready for any blossoming romance between Arthur and Gwen. But all the talk had been of Lancelot and Guinevere, and somehow she’d been caught by surprise. She’d been busy with the gnomes and their problems, and Arthur had been rebuilding the Great Hall and the Round Table. And now this. A sudden wedding announcement, and Arthur unavailable for comment.

  “To hell with all men!” she shouted. “To hell with Arthur!”

  “That’s better.” He smiled at her, encouraged.

  “And to hell with you too! You brought that little bitch into the forest!”

  “Acting under Avalona’s orders.”

  “You could have disobeyed them!”

  “Just you try disobeying Avalona’s orders sometime, my girl.”

  “Well, I’m not standing for it!” An idea was germinating in her mind, and it followed the course of the legend so closely, she could almost believe the seed had been planted by Avalona. “Get me a horse, Merlin!”

  “I have no horse. I’ve always wanted a horse, but Avalona has seen fit to mount me on a mule. I can lend you a mule.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Merlin, can you really see me riding into the wedding feast on a mule? I’d be the laughingstock of Mara Zion!”

  His eyes widened. “You intend to fulfill the legend?”

  “I can’t see why the hell not. I mean to ruin that stupid wedding if it’s the last thing I do. Now bring me a horse white as snow—I mean, a white horse. I’ve been talking to the gnomes too much lately. Bring me a white horse. At least do that much for me, and I’ll be on my way.”

  “Nyneve, even if you were to remove your blouse for me, I couldn’t bring you a white horse.”

  “I thought you had powers.”

  “I don’t think anyone really has powers,” the old Paragon said sadly. “Avalona is only clever,
that’s all. Everything has a logical explanation. I don’t know where the magic has gone to. It’s a shame.”

  “Bugger you then, Merlin!” she snapped. “I’ll steal a horse. Everybody’s at the bloody wedding, anyway. I’ll steal a horse, and you’ll see what I’ll do next. I’ll make sure that wedding is a bloody disaster, or my name’s not Nyneve!”

  She swung around and ran down the path, black hair flying like a mane.

  Merlin watched her go. “You cunning old witch, Avalona,” he muttered.

  “Is that really you in there, Arthur?” whispered Gwen as she knelt beside the heavily armored figure. “Couldn’t you raise the visor, perhaps?”

  “It won’t stay up,” came the muffled reply. “I’m not going to risk it clanging shut in the middle of the ceremony. The Archbishop wouldn’t like it.”

  “He doesn’t look much of an Archbishop. His cassock looks borrowed, like your armor. It’s too big for him.”

  “He’s come all the way from Canterbury—Menheniot arranged it.”

  “Isn’t Canterbury Saxon territory?”

  “That explains the clothes. He was probably stripped and robbed on the journey, and had to borrow a cassock from a local priest. Robbers often strip people, so they tell me.”

  “A robber would need a strong stomach to strip that fellow. He could do with a damned good bath in holy waters.”

  “Have you never heard of an ecclesiastical smell?”

  “And did you have to wear the armor? I like that green doublet better. It suits you, with your hair and everything.”

  “This is an official occasion,” came the muffled reply. “I must be in uniform. Anyway, it’s a bit late to start talking about doublets now. Start praying, Gwen. The Archbishop’s about to begin.”

  The tiny chapel was packed with villagers and soldiers. One wall had been removed, allowing a view of the ceremony for a further crowd of several hundred gathered among the tombstones. The chapel roof sagged slightly as a result but was shored up with sturdy timbers. The congregation, sensing the approach of a historic moment, stilled.

  “Dearly beloved,” began the Archbishop in a thick French accent, “we are gathered here today …”