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

by Coney, Michael G.

  The legend said that Gwen and Lance were lovers, and so people believed it. They wanted to believe it. The truest of his friends regarded him with sympathy, the most insincere with contempt.

  Nobody felt the way he did about the pair. Lancelot, although a good friend and ally, was a prude. And Gwen, although reasonably beautiful and quite intelligent, was somewhat frigid. Furthermore, she enjoyed being queen and would not want to risk losing that status.

  What unhappy reasons for being sure of one’s wife!

  Pondering on this, Arthur fell asleep at last. …

  “Hello, darling!” She was kissing him lightly on the forehead, the sunlight gilding her hair as it cascaded past her face. “You should have woken me up.”

  “Let me look at you.” He held her at arm’s length. She looked back at him, clear-eyed. Yes, she was pretty. He hugged her to him and kissed her properly and was pleased to feel a definite stirring of affection within himself; and perhaps a little lust too. He laughed as the worries of the night began to fade. She hugged him back and climbed into bed beside him—whether out of a sense of duty or love, he didn’t know. And just for a few minutes it didn’t matter.

  Afterward they sat drinking a local tea that he hadn’t tasted since leaving Camelot, while the sunlight lanced through the tall windows and specks of drifting dust looked like their personal stars.

  “Tell me the news,” he said.

  “There isn’t much to tell. While Torre was away fighting, Governayle looked after things and did a good job. He may not be much of a soldier, but he has a good head on him. The village of Mara Zion thrives. The Irish came twice, but they made no trouble, and brought some useful goods for barter. The gnomes have been making themselves useful, and they really seem to have settled down well at the beach. There was a slight problem with a high tide in the spring but we sorted that out. Ned Palomides has been keeping an eye on them recently, after I had a little disagreement with them.”

  “Palomides? But isn’t he a bit of a rogue?”

  “Probably, but he always treats me with respect. And he seems to have the gnomes’ interests at heart.” She smiled at him. “And that’s about all the news from Camelot.”

  “What about Lancelot?”

  “Oh, him? He got all miserable and left, after my little dispute with the gnomes. I’m sorry, Arthur. I know you thought a lot of him, but I can’t stand people with long faces around me. And Lance was like that—always disapproving of this or that. Never satisfied. I don’t think I ever saw him laugh.”

  “So where is he now?”

  “I heard a rumor he went over to Trevarron Isle. A strange woman called Elaine lives there—she has a son, too, I believe. I expect Lance is living with her. She sounds the kind of woman he’d take pity on.”

  “I’ll have to find time to visit him while I’m here.”

  “Well, don’t worry about it now, darling. I’ve organized a welcoming party for you tonight. It’s short notice, but all Menheniot will be here, and I’m hoping some of your old friends from Mara Zion will be able to come too. I’ve invited the gnomes to entertain us, as a goodwill gesture.”

  “It would have been nice to have had a quiet evening alone.”

  “Nonsense, darling! People will be glad to see you back. You must give them a chance to celebrate a little. After all, you’re something of a stranger these days. …”

  Alas for idealism. There was no Round Table in the Great Hall of Camelot. The tragedy of Mara Zion had been taken as a warning not to fly in the face of the natural order. And the natural order dictated that the leaders should be at the head table and the followers elsewhere. So the long tables were arranged in ranks; and Arthur, Gwen, Torre, Governayle, and a handful of other favorites sat at a table at right angles to the others.

  To the west was a raised platform, and on this stood a miniature table. Gnomes sat in a row along the far side of this table, facing the guests. They had discarded their traditional conical caps and now wore forked hats with a tiny silver bell at each tip.

  Arthur asked, “Are those your beach gnomes, Gwen?”

  “Yes. Don’t they look nice?” She smiled at them in a proprietary manner and waved to Drexel Poxy, who waved back. “I’m so glad they came. I don’t like to be bad friends with anyone.” A faint cry came from one of the other gnomes.

  Arthur frowned. “What did he say?”

  “Oh, don’t worry about him. That’s just Mold. He often shouts things like that, just to shock people.”

  “Well, I didn’t catch what he said, so I wasn’t shocked. And in any case, I don’t shock easily.”

  He was shocked, however, at midnight when Gwen clapped her hands for silence and announced the entertainment for the evening.

  “First the gnomes will dance for you,” she said, “and then we have something really special. Something you’ve never seen before.”

  A minstrel began to pluck at his lute, and the gnomes climbed onto their table. Then began one of the most embarrassing performances it had been Arthur’s misfortune to witness. Gnomes are more thickset than humans, and their dance was clumsy and pathetic, with much foot stamping and hand clapping, ducking and bowing. There were more males than females, which gave an unbalanced look to an already awkward performance. They were clearly self-conscious about the whole thing. This was aggravated by Mold, who kept slapping the others on the buttocks, and by Poxy himself, who kept hitting them over the head with a bladder on a stick.

  “Are they enjoying it?” asked Arthur.

  “Of course they are. It’s one of their traditional dances. And our guests love them!”

  Apparently they did. The Great Hall reverberated with rhythmic clapping as the guests encouraged the dismal performance. This prompted the gnomes to exaggerate their movements further, and to caper in a most ungnomelike fashion. Poxy started to utter gnomish shouts of bogus enthusiasm—which was a mistake because the others began to do likewise. Seditious shouts of “Away, Thunderer” roared from gnomish throats, intermingled with lone cries of “Anal passages!”

  “This is just terrible, Gwen,” muttered Arthur. “They’re debasing themselves.”

  “All entertainers debase themselves to amuse their audience. It’s their side of the deal. And they’re being paid well, believe me.”

  “Yes, but gnomes … ?”

  “You’ve always said we should treat them the same as humans. So now they’re being treated the same as human jesters and tumblers.” She regarded him critically. “Perhaps you’ll like the next part better. It’s a little more intellectual.”

  Eventually the gnomes finished their bitter dance and resumed their seats, with the exception of Drexel Poxy and the Gooligog. A stool was handed up and the Gooligog sat on it, looking glum. Poxy held up a hand for silence.

  “We are flattered by the human interest in gnomish customs,” he shouted, “and tonight we have a real treat for you all. Tonight you will witness a gnomish ceremony never before performed for a human audience. Tonight you will be afforded a glimpse into the far-distant past. Tonight”—he paused impressively—”we give you the gnomish Memorizing rites!”

  There was a roar of applause and some laughter, drowning the Gooligog’s testy response. “It’s not a bloody rite. We never call it a bloody rite. It’s a meeting at which I preside, that’s what it is. You make us sound like some kind of weird cult!”

  He sat staring mutinously at the Gnome from the North.

  “Do we have a question?” Poxy asked the gnomes brightly.

  “That’s not the way it starts,” snapped the Gooligog. “That’s the kind of stupid thing my son Willie says. He’s degraded the whole process. Now get down off the bloody table and let me handle it my way!”

  The audience chuckled, thinking this was all part of the act. Poxy stepped down with a furious glance at the Gooligog.

  The Gooligog straightened his ceremonial robe. Then he rose and spread his arms so that the robe hung from them like wings. In a tall human his attit
ude might have inspired awe; but he was a chunky little old gnome, and it looked comical. There were a few stifled chuckles.

  “Bring me your memories!” he chanted.

  And as often happened on these occasions, there were no takers. The Gooligog sat in a growing silence, and the human audience became restless.

  The Gnome from the North stood. “I have a memory!”

  “I hear you, Great Poxy. State your memory for consideration.”

  “I submit the following incident,” said Poxy slowly, his mind frantically seeking an event worthy of note. His gaze fell on Gwen and gave him inspiration. “The spring tides were unusually high this year, and threatened our village. If it hadn’t been for the help of the humans, we would have become homeless. Many deeds of heroism were done. However”—a shadow crossed his face—”due to the stupidity of certain fools, some of us did become homeless, and our food stores were lost.”

  “You didn’t exactly distinguish yourself, Poxy!” shouted Bart. Since the episode of the flood, his relationship with his leader had deteriorated further.

  “At least I didn’t wipe out half the village by rolling rocks on it!”

  “Silence!” yelled the Gooligog, jumping to his feet. “A Memorizing meeting is a time for responsible deliberation, not mindless quarreling. It’s a time for agreement between gnomes as to what the true course of history is. And in any case, Poxy’s topic is invalid. It was committed to memory weeks ago.”

  “I don’t remember you committing it to memory, Gooligog,” said Bart.

  “The Great Poxy convened a special meeting and I committed it then.”

  “Then it must have been a secret meeting.”

  “Well, it was,” admitted the Gooligog.

  “But that’s against the rules!”

  “I make the rules, Bart o’ Bodmin. Now sit down and let us continue.”

  “I demand to know why the meeting was secret!”

  Since there were signs of disorder and Mold was beginning to shout obscenities, the Gooligog deemed it wise to reply. “The Great Poxy decided on this course. The circumstances were exceptional. In the excitement of the event, memories had become unreliable. Mental images of life-threatening moments had obscured the overall sweep and pattern of the situation.”

  “Nipples!”

  Mold’s shout of skepticism carried clearly around the Great Hall, which had become deathly silent. The entertainment was far more absorbing than even the most optimistic had expected.

  “Are you calling me a liar, Mold?” asked the Gooligog incredulously.

  “Absolutely. I’m saying that you and Drexel Poxy cooked up a fake memory between you, because the real memory would reflect upon the leadership of our settlement.”

  The human audience was forgotten now. A wholly unselfconscious and typically gnomish dispute was in progress. The Gooligog, having already sprung to his feet, had little left in the way of dramatic gestures. So he climbed onto his chair and, teetering, shouted, “I have never cooked up a memory in four hundred years of Memorizing! I was in the forest when the affair of the spring tides began, and it was practically over by the time I got back. So I relied on the word of our great leader, and why not? Your accusation reflects on the heritage of every gnome here!”

  “It doesn’t reflect on me!” yelled Bart, climbing onto the table.

  “Nor me!” yelled Mold, joining him.

  They began to shake the Gooligog’s chair.

  “I demand to know your memories concerning the affair of the spring tides!” shouted Bart.

  Drexel Poxy climbed onto the table. “That is restricted information!”

  “No memories are restricted!” The remaining gnomes, horrified at this breach of gnomish custom, climbed up too. They stood in a tight and quarrelsome group, the Gooligog on his chair protruding above them. “What do you mean, restricted?” they demanded.

  “Privy to the Gooligog and I!” cried Poxy desperately.

  “No, I can’t have that, Drexel.” The Gooligog had his arms around the shoulders of Bart and Mold to steady himself, and possibly this had induced a feeling of brotherhood toward them. “No memories are restricted.”

  “So recall, Gooligog!” ordered Bart. “Do your duty. Recall your memories of the Affair of the Spring Tides.”

  “The Affair of the Spring Tides!” insisted the others, in whose minds the event had acquired capital letters like a mystery novel. “Recall, Gooligog!”

  “Don’t be intimidated, Gooligog!” cried Poxy.

  “Stifle the Great Poxy!” somebody shouted, and two gnomes grappled Poxy to the ground and sat on his head—an act of open violence that never would have occurred in legitimate gnomish society. “Recall, Gooligog!” they said.

  “Back off, then,” snapped the Gooligog irritably. “Give me space.”

  They helped him down and he sat on his chair, arranging his robes in dignified folds. He brought his hands together in front of his face, closed his eyes, and bowed his head.

  “Cut the crap, Gooligog!” said Mold impatiently. “We’re not asking you to recall events on the Home Planet. The Affair of the Spring Tides only happened a few weeks ago.”

  Sighing, the Gooligog said, “That day the tides were unusually high, as the Great Poxy had forecast, and they threatened the village. It was apparent that the village had been built too close to the water, despite the advice of the Great Poxy. Fortunately he was able to alert the gnomes, and had the forethought to enlist the help of the humans Guinevere, Lancelot, and Palomides.”

  “That’s all lies!” shouted Mold. “I gave the warning! Poxy was nowhere to be seen!”

  “I merely repeat what the Great Poxy instructed me to memorize.” The Gooligog closed his eyes again. “The evacuation was proceeding satisfactorily, and it seemed all would be well because the Great Poxy had designed the cottages to withstand the natural elements. Unfortunately he had not foreseen the actions of the gnome Bart o’ Bodmin. Bart, who had been drinking, was deceived by a combination of strong sunlight and alcoholic hallucination into believing that a monster was rising from the deeps and advancing on the village. So he ordered the release of—”

  “Lies!” screamed Bart. “I hadn’t touched a drop! I let the dolmens go because people told me the giants were attacking! And I could see them down there, ripping the roof off a cottage!”

  A muffled objection came from Poxy. “Nobody said the giants were attacking.”

  The gnomes regarded one another. “I seem to remember people saying that,” said someone. “I remember thinking it was a despicable thing to do, attacking us in our hour of distress.”

  Now the human audience began to respond with murmurs of sympathy. “What wretch attacked the gnomes, Gwen?” asked Arthur. “You were there.”

  “Nobody attacked them. Ned and Lance were trying to move one of their cottages to safe ground, and the roof came off in their hands. Lance told me all about it. It seems there was a gnome in bed at the time, and he placed the wrong construction on things. It was he who panicked and thought he was being attacked, and then he began to shout. The others took up his cry. They didn’t know any different.”

  “Ah.” Arthur looked relieved. “So the gnome in bed was the problem. Our people were blameless.”

  “Absolutely, darling. We were trying to help.”

  On the table, the gnomes were absorbing this intelligence. One question loomed above all others.

  “Who was the Gnome in Bed, Gooligog?” asked Bart.

  “The Gnome in Bed was not identified.”

  “I can identify the Gnome in Bed!” cried Mold. “The truth must be told! The Gnome in Bed was Drexel Poxy himself! After I sounded the alarm I couldn’t find him anywhere, so I went to his cottage. He’d overslept, the idle bugger. I heard him screaming when the roof came off. I knew bloody well the giants weren’t attacking because I’d just been talking to them, but other gnomes didn’t. They believed Poxy and they spread the word. Who can blame them? He was their leader.”
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  There was a long silence. The gnomes got off Poxy’s head and he stood, weeping.

  “Poxy,” thundered the Gooligog, “you have betrayed the trust.”

  “This is a sorry moment for gnomedom,” said Bart. “And under the circumstances I’d like to ease my conscience,” he added, shooting Poxy a look of sly triumph.

  “No!” cried the Gnome from the North. “You’ll destroy us both!”

  “Yes, but they’ll forgive me, because I’m the one who’s going to rat on you.”

  “Ease your conscience, Bart!” yelled Mold, interested. “It’s your sacred duty!”

  Bart took a deep breath and faced the gnomes. “I’d like to tell you about a conversation six years ago,” he said quietly.

  The gnomes, sensing this would be a long story, settled back.

  “I want you to imagine a low drinking hole in Bodmin, lower even than Clubfoot’s hole,” Bart began. “And I want you to imagine two gnomes sitting in there: one cunning and unscrupulous, one friendly and gullible. The unscrupulous one was Poxy,” he said, in case there should be any misunderstanding, “and the gullible one was me.”

  “Have you ever dreamed of an empire, Bart?” Poxy’s face was demonic in the lamplight. “Have you ever lain awake at night wondering what it would be like to be in charge of Bodmin, and to issue orders and have gnomes jump to obey you? And to receive intelligence from outlying areas, and to send task forces to deal with things? And to conclude alliances with your neighbors and then, when they least expect it, slip in your own people as their leaders? And see your empire expand by your own cleverness, until your sphere of influence is bounded only by the sea? And then to build boats capable of holding a hundred gnomes, or maybe a thousand?”

  “No,” said Bart.

  “All right. Suppose I told you all this could come to pass. And then supposing it did, just the way I said it would. What would you think then, Bart?”

  “I’d think you were a very remarkable gnome, Drexel.”

  “The difference between the ordinary gnome and the remarkable gnome is that the remarkable gnome plans, Bart. He is always one step ahead. Which brings me to prophesies.”