“Just an animal,” came a mocking voice. “And a little bit more, perhaps. But what in God’s name are you? A giant out of the umbra?”
Nyneve whirled round. The music had stopped. Perched on a rock was a tiny humanlike figure, dressed in motley rags, watching her from slanted brown eyes. Human, yet not human: the cast of the face gave the impression the creature had been suspended by the ears during its formative years. Slender fingers held a little flat bundle of flutes.
“I asked you a question,” said the piper sharply. Despite his small size, he showed no fear. Quite the contrary; there was some arrogance in his manner.
“I … I’m a girl,” said Nyneve.
“Kind of huge, for a girl, aren’t you?”
“And you’re kind of tiny for a boy,” retorted Nyneve with spirit, rapidly recovering. “I suppose you’re a gnome.”
This struck home unexpectedly. The piper’s face turned an unpleasant yellow. “Gnome?” He spat the word as though it were an oath. “You’re taking on a master of insult, I’m warning you.” He eyed her critically, seeking an opening. “Your breasts are too small for your size, and your hips are too narrow. Motherhood is not going to be your strong point. Giant or not, you’re at the end of your evolutionary twig.”
“What?”
“You’re stupid, too. You won’t last long in these parts. There’s a dragon in the forest, and you represent a prime target. You’re not equipped for survival.”
“Why don’t we just be friends?” said Nyneve helplessly.
“Friends? I have no friends. I’ve seen friends, though,” said the piper craftily. “And I’ve seen where it leads. My master, the Miggot of One, had a friend. Hal o’ the Moor, his cousin. They got too close, and they found out all the rotten things about each other. Now they hate each other’s guts. It saves time to be enemies from the start.” He eyed her loftily. “I would be pleased to number you among my enemies.”
“Thank you.” Nyneve entered into the spirit of the conversation. “And who have I the honor to hate?”
“Pan. And I?”
“Nyneve.”
“That’s a stupid name.”
“Thank you. And this creature here—what is it?”
“It is the Sharan.”
“And what is a Sharan, exactly?”.
Pan glanced over his shoulder, as though expecting spies. “Mother to the world,” he said quietly and impressively, “And I am her guardian.”
“She seems to like me better,” said Nyneve. The Sharan was nuzzling against her, the delicate fur tickling her bare thighs with a strange electricity.
“That’s just her mother’s instinct. She loves everything and everybody, and that can get just a little tedious, for a mischievous fellow like me.” Pan chuckled. “So sometimes I play tricks on her. I can build pictures in her mind with my music, did you know that? I could build pictures in yours, too, if I chose to.”
“I can do without them, thanks.”
“These pictures can be quite disgusting, if you care to take them that way,” said Pan hopefully.
“No. Tell me about the pictures you play to the Sharan.”
He squinted up at her, elfin. “Well, usually they’re just for breeding purposes, so she’ll give birth to the kind of creature we want. The Miggot is very particular about what creatures are needed around here. But sometimes”—he chuckled—”just sometimes, when the arrogance of that damned Miggot gets a little too much, I play the Sharan a different tune. I tell her that her children are being threatened.” He slapped his thigh and squealed with laughter. “Imagine that! She goes crazy! She stampedes off into the forest looking for victims, and the Miggot stampedes after her. He doesn’t know the real reason she’s running, of course. He thinks warble flies have been laying eggs under her skin!” Tears of mirth streamed down his pointed face.
“What a nasty little man you are,” said Nyneve.
“You think I’m nasty? Wait till you meet the Miggot!”
“I’d rather not, thanks.” And she turned to go.
“Wait!”
There was an unexpected entreaty in his voice. Nyneve paused. “Well?”
“Don’t go. Stay a while and talk. I’m sorry if I upset you. But you’re beautiful, you see.”
“I thought you said my breasts were too small and my hips too narrow.”
“You remembered! I must have made an impression.”
“It was a very bad impression.”
“I get spiteful when I see beautiful people,” Pan explained, suddenly sad. “You see, beautiful people are for loving, and I can’t love.”
“Perhaps you don’t try hard enough.”
“I don’t try at all. There’s no point. But you … I’ve seen you giants in the umbra. There are men there, and they will love you, because they will find you beautiful. A stag in the forest will find a hind beautiful, and will love her. The gnomes, now—they have their males and females. Even that unspeakable Miggot has a wife—much good does it do him.” Pan’s expression was bitter. “And I play music for them all. I play music to your people, too, through the mists of the umbra. And when you hear my music, you fall in love.”
His voice hardened. “Because that’s what I’m for. That’s what I was bred for. I have no purpose other than to lead others into pleasure, and do you know why? Because there is no female of my species in the land. I’m alone. I love by proxy, encouraging you giants in your antics and then watching you. You don’t see me, though. For some reason I’ve never understood, the umbra only works one way.”
“I’m sorry,” said Nyneve, her heart softening to the unhappy creature. “When did you lose your wife?”
“I never had one. I’ve been alone ever since I arrived here with the Sharan and the gnomes.”
“Arrived? Where did you come from?”
Pan looked uncertain. “From up in the sky somewhere, I think. Perhaps one of the moons. It’s all so long ago I can’t remember for sure. The gnomes could tell you. They remember everything that ever happened. Or they can, when they choose to. I never play my pipes to the gnomes, by the way. They’re immune to loving.”
Nyneve regarded him thoughtfully for a while. The morning was warming into a sunny day and the Sharan was rubbing affectionately against her legs. She sat down on the grass, drawing the unicorn with her so that its head rested in her lap. She yawned, feeling at ease despite the strangeness of this new world and its inhabitants. “Play me your pipes, Pan,” she said, stroking the Sharan’s soft neck and looking into its loving eyes.
“I told you it might be disgusting.”
“Nothing could be disgusting this morning.”
“If that’s what you want, then.”
He put the instrument to his lips carefully, as though sipping hot tea, and began to play. His eyes closed and soon he was swaying gently from side to side while an eerie, unearthly melody sang among the rocks and trees of the hillside. Nyneve had never heard music like this before. The Sharan’s eyes closed, too, and it uttered a sighing rumble not unlike a purr.
“Everyone hears something different.” Pan had stopped playing abruptly, and was watching her from cunning eyes. “And what do you hear, giant?”
“Music.”
“The Sharan hears a lover coming. Probably some randy old billy goat with a spike sticking out of his head. And she sees a magic place where her children will be born. So she must be sure—you understand?—she must be sure that her children are right for this magic place.”
“I wish you made sense.”
“Close your eyes and put your thoughts far away from you. That’s when it makes sense.”
Nyneve did as she was told, and Pan began to play again. The music, reedy and magical, filled her mind with a melody that was to haunt her for the rest of her life. It was a love song and more. It was a life song and a death song, and it echoed from the trumpet of her mind around her body, as it might echo around an empty ballroom waiting to be filled with dancers.
A
nd a dancer arrived.
He was a tall man and red-headed, with a short red beard and eyes of the brightest sapphire. His nose was fine and angular and bore a scar on the left side, as though he’d barely dodged the thrust of a sword. His mouth, full-lipped, smiled as though he were pleased to see her. His bearing was aristocratic and he wore polished armor. In his right hand he carried a sword quite different from the lumpy, rough-hammered swords of Mara Zion. This sword was polished until it glittered, and as she watched he laid it down on the grass and moved toward her, arms outstretched in welcome, powerful, irresistible. …
Nyneve opened her eyes with a squeak of fright. “Who was that?” The vision had appeared like the inhabitants of the game she played with Merlin: clear, alive, real. But she had no control over this vision. It, she suspected, might have control over her.
“It was probably the manifestation of some nasty little lust of yours,” said Pan carelessly, laying down the pipes.
“I don’t have nasty little lusts.” She was about to elaborate on this when there was a rustling of leaves and a large rabbit bounded into the clearing, bearing another tiny man on its back.
“What’s going on here?” rasped the newcomer, a singularly unpleasant looking fellow with a warty face and wearing a red cap. “What have you done to the Sharan, Pan? Why is she lying down like that? By the Great Grasshopper, if she’s sick you’ll rue the day!”
Pan said gleefully, “Take a closer look, Miggot.”
The Miggot allowed his gaze to travel upwards from the reclining unicorn. His eyes suddenly snapped into focus and he started so violently that his rabbit panicked and began to bound wildly around the clearing, the Miggot hanging on desperately. “A giant!” he shouted. “I can see it as clearly as if it was real! My God, the umbra is upon us. I always said it would happen!”
“I think she is real,” said Pan.
“What do you mean, real?” With difficulty the Miggot got his rabbit under control and dismounted. “It can’t be real. The umbra isn’t real, no matter how close it might seem.”
“I’m really quite harmless,” Nyneve assured him.
“It speaks! It’s really here!” The Miggot clutched Pan’s arm, staring open-mouthed up at Nyneve.
“That’s what I was trying to tell you.”
“Are you a gnome?” asked Nyneve.
Oddly, the question seemed to reassure the little creature. He drew himself up proudly. “I am a gnome,” he said.
Nyneve was disappointed. She’d expected gnomes to be more attractive, somehow. “Are there any fairies about?” she asked hopefully.
“Only fools believe in fairies,” snapped the Miggot. “They are biologically improbable. The ultimate biped is the gnome.” He had recovered his composure and was staring at her challengingly.
“I’m bigger than you,” said Nyneve, stung.
“Yes, but how long will you live?”
“Seventy years or so, I hope.”
“I,” said the Miggot, puffing out his chest, “have seen some three hundred winters.”
“You have?” Nyneve was impressed. “How many children do you have?”
He looked affronted. “That is a very improper question.”
“Why?”
“Well …” He shuffled his feet, apparently at a loss for words. He glanced at Pan for support, but the piper merely leered and uttered a chuckle. “Well, you know how children come about. It’s a very personal problem that is not discussed in polite gnomish society.”
“Problem?”
“You’re wasting your time, Nyneve,” said Pan. “Gnomes are weird that way.”
“Oh.” Nyneve was a polite girl, and had no wish to violate the customs of this new land.
The awkward silence was broken by the arrival of another gnome, younger and marginally better-looking than the warty Miggot. He scampered into the clearing, saw Nyneve right away, and sidled up to the Miggot.
“I say, Miggot, is this a giant out of the umbra?”
“I regret that it is, Will,” said the other. “It tells me it is called Nyneve. This is a dreadful day for gnomedom.”
Will, with bright interest, was edging around Nyneve, examining her from all sides. Completing his circumnavigation, he said with obvious relief, “It doesn’t have a skewer.”
“I’d noticed that,” said the Miggot sourly. “Why do you think I’m still here?”
“But it could be concealed about its clothing.”
“I’m a girl,” said Nyneve firmly. “Not an it. A girl.”
“In a manner of speaking,” said the Miggot.
“How did you get here, Nyneve?” asked Will brightly.
She hesitated. Avalona might not want the secret of the mushroom circle to get out. On the other hand, these little people were naturally alarmed by her appearance in their world, and she ought to reassure them. “I came by a magic way which only I know,” she said.
They stared up at her with contempt. “Magic?” repeated the Miggot.
“All right, then.” she relented. “There’s a place where your world and mine touch. You know, where the circle of mushrooms is.”
Now they believed her. “The umbra always seems much clearer near the mushroom rings,” said the Miggot thoughtfully.
“Does this mean all kinds of giants will be stepping through?” asked Will.
“No,” she reassured him. “Only me, and possibly Avalona and Merlin. They’re two old people I live with.”
“That’s good,” said Will, relieved. “Not that we aren’t pleased to see you,” he added hastily, “but you giants are so … so big, and there wouldn’t be much room for us if you were around the place. When are you going back?”
“Later on today.”
The gnomes nodded and were silent. The Sharan appeared to have fallen asleep, and Pan tootled his pipes quietly to himself. As the silence lengthened, the gnomes began to glance up at Nyneve from under their red caps, as though politely waiting for her to make a move.
“Miggot!” exclaimed Will suddenly.
“What?”
“I’ve just remembered why I came to see you. There’s an emergency in gnomedom. The daggertooth has come back!”
“The daggertooth!” repeated the Miggot in alarm, glancing over his shoulder. “How do you know?”
“King Bison found droppings outside his home this morning. The daggertooth had been lurking there during the night, waiting for him to come out!”
“Fresh droppings?”
“Steaming.”
“That’s disgusting,” said Nyneve. “I’ve only just had breakfast.”
They looked up at her in surprise. “Steaming droppings are a perfectly normal sight around the forest in the early morning,” said the Miggot, “when the air is chilly. You giants have a funny sense of propriety. You were quite happy to talk about sex a moment ago—and in a most forthright manner. The leaving of droppings is a far more commonplace action than sex, I’m happy to say. There is nothing disgusting about it at all; in fact, it has a very beneficial effect on the forest as a whole. Unlike sex, which simply results in more mouths to feed.”
“I’m sorry.”
Having made his point, the Miggot turned to Will. “You must ride through the forest and warn gnomedom.”
“I’d rather not, if you don’t mind, Miggot. This is not the best time to ride through the forest. I had in mind creeping home and barricading my door. Perhaps you should warn gnomedom yourself.”
“My first duty is to the Sharan. What’s the matter with you, Will? Clubfoot Trimble tells me you’re an adventurous young fellow who loves danger for its own sake.”
“You ought to know better than to listen to Clubfoot, Miggot. My father the Gooligog calls me a stubborn young idiot for the same reason. It’s because I’ve got a big rock stuck in the roof of my house and they think it’ll fall on my head one day. It’s not that I love danger for its own sake, Miggot,” said Will plaintively. “It’s just that I don’t know what to do about tha
t rock. Sometimes I wake up at night sweating and thinking about it. Perhaps you could drop by some time and take a look. Don’t knock on the door too loudly. Besides,” concluded Will in tones of finality, “I don’t have my rabbit with me.”
The Miggot looked puzzled. “I don’t quite understand what your rabbit has to do with anything, Will.”
“Well, I can hardly ride through the forest warning gnomedom if I have nothing to ride on, can I?”
“Oh, I see. I thought you were talking about your rock.”
“I was. But now I’m talking about warning gnomedom.”
“It is the greater priority,” said the Miggot wisely.
“But one that I can do nothing about.”
“I’ll take you, Will,” said Nyneve.
“You?” He shot a nervous glance in her direction. “You mean carry me?”
“It’s no problem.”
“But … when you stand up, you’re going to be very tall, aren’t you?”
“Fairly tall.”
“Gnomes are not good at heights.”
“Then you’ll have to get used to it.” So saying, she laid the head of the sleeping unicorn gently on the grass, scooped Will up and stood, holding him in cupped hands against her breasts. Although stockily built, he was less than a foot high, and not heavy.
“Help!” he shouted.
“Be quiet, Will. You’re quite safe. Now, which way should we go.”
“D-down there,” he stammered. “You see the willow trees? There’s a river.”
“Goodbye, Will!” called the Miggot as they set off. “This is a courageous journey you’re undertaking. I’ll see you get a mention at the next monthly gathering!”
“What does he mean?” asked Nyneve, as she descended the hillside to the flat-bottomed valley.
“Oh … it’s nothing. It’s just that once a month we have a meeting when anything important that’s happened is told to our Memorizer, and he remembers it. It becomes gnomish history.”
“What a good idea!”
“Unfortunately, the Memorizer is my father.”
She reflected on the bitterness in his voice as she walked on, her bare feet swishing through the long grass, and decided it would be better to change the subject. “You and the Miggot didn’t seem altogether surprised by me. I mean, I am much bigger than people you’re used to. What did you mean, when you said I was a giant out of the umbra?” she said. “What’s the umbra?”
Fang, the Gnome (Song of Earth) Page 3
