“Shadows of your world.”
“How do you mean?”
“Stop a minute. Turn around. I’ll show you.” He gazed at the foot of the bluffs. “There’s usually something happening over there.” The flat land was very still; then a breeze sent a pale wave across the grass.
“In my world, all this is underwater,” said Nyneve wonderingly.
“There! Look!”
A shadowy figure came riding from behind the bluff. The horse’s legs passed through the bushes as though they were smoke, and Nyneve could see the rock crevices through the rider’s insubstantial body. He was a pale ghost of a man, riding slowly west.
“That’s Torre,” said Nyneve in amazement. “Torre, from the village. I suppose in his world he’d be riding along the beach. I’ve never seen anything like that before. It’s quite scary.”
“It’s commonplace in gnomedom,” said Will loftily. “Now, if you’ll just put me down here, I’ll go and warn … someone. I won’t be long.”
He pushed his way through the grass to the riverbank, slid down the bare earth and disappeared under the overhang. After a moment Nyneve heard his tiny voice shouting, “Princess! Princess!” Then there was a reply, and a muffled conversation. When Will reappeared, his face was oddly flushed and he avoided Nyneve’s eyes. She picked him up and he said, “Follow the river into the swampy place.” He pointed south.
“Who was that, Will?”
“Who? Oh, her. She’s called the Princess of the Willow Tree. That’s because she lives under a willow tree.”
“Why ‘Princess’?”
He was looking the other way. “I expect it’s because she’s quite pretty, really.”
“There’s nothing wrong with being in love, Will.”
“Sometimes there is,” he mumbled.
“What do you mean?”
“I’d rather not talk about it, if you don’t mind.”
“All right.” And she walked in silence until the ground became so wet and spongy underfoot that she could go no further.
“You can put me down here. This is where my father lives.”
“It’s a bit dreary here, isn’t it?”
“It suits my father. His name’s the Gooligog. People say he talks to the funny things that crawl around here, but that,” said Will with a burst of filial loyalty, “is a damned lie. I admit he’s strange, but he’d not that strange. And I suppose I’m dutybound to warn him about the daggertooth, but he won’t thank me for it. He’ll tell me to bugger off and mind my own business. Then when I’m gone, he’ll push his housemouse outside as a decoy, barricade the door, and hide under his blankets. The thought of the daggertooth scares him waterless,” said Will with grim satisfaction. “He was chased by it once.”
He hurried off into the swamp, leaping from tussock to tussock, and was soon lost from view. For a while Nyneve reflected on the problems of family relationships, then quite soon Will reappeared, sucking his wrist.
“The bloody housemouse bit me,” he said. “My father must already know about the daggertooth because the door was barricaded and the housemouse was outside. Sometimes I don’t know which is worse,” he added as she picked him up, “the daggertooth or that bloody housemouse.”
“What does he keep a housemouse for, if it’s so savage?”
He looked at her in surprise. “For when he dies, of course. Old gnomes always have housemice. There’s all kinds of mess in a place when a gnome dies, and the housemouse cleans up.”
“You mean like stale food and stuff?”
“Yes, and the body, of course.”
“You … you don’t mean the housemouse eats the body?” Nyneve gave a shudder of disgust.
“Well, he’s not going to leave it there, is he? How do giants dispose of bodies?”
“We bury them.”
“So the insects can eat them. I suppose it comes to the same thing. But our way, you don’t have to handle the body. Sometimes a body can be quite nasty, if it’s been there for a long time. I had to get rid of a badger when I moved into my home. It wasn’t a pleasant experience. And then there’s all the trouble of digging a hole. We gnomes dig as little as possible. The less we can disturb the world around us, the better. I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of the Kikihuahua Examples?”
“I can’t say I have. What are they?”
He closed his eyes and recited:
“ ‘I will not kill any mortal creature.
“ ‘I will not work any malleable substance.
“ ‘I will not kindle the Wrath of Agni.
“ ‘In this way I will take a step toward living in accord with my world and the creatures in it, which will be a step nearer to the Example of the Kikihuahuas, and the Will of God.’ “
“And do you not do all those things?” asked Nyneve.
“We try.”
“What’s the Wrath of … what was it?”
“Agni.”
“Yes. What’s that?”
“We don’t know, really,” Will confessed. “But we’re quite careful, so probably we don’t to it.”
“And what does ‘kikihuahua’ mean?”
“We don’t know that either, but it’s obviously very important, otherwise the memory would never have been passed down. One day my father will pass on his memories to me.” He scowled. “Perhaps. And then I’ll be the official Memorizer myself, and somewhere in my head will be the meaning of kikihuahua and Agni and everything. All I’ll have to do is find it.”
And so the odd couple continued their journey through gnomedom, and Nyneve met tiny people with strange names: Clubfoot Trimble, Fat Trish, King Bison, Spector the Thinking Gnome, Elmera, and others; and each one was warned of the presence of the daggertooth in the forest of Mara Zion. Finally she set Will down at his own door, and returned to the mushroom circle.
That evening, Avalona said, “You found your visit instructive?”
“They’re certainly different from us. But nice. Some of them, at any rate. Will, for one.”
“Will …” Avalona closed her eyes and made a brief evaluation of the immediate ifalong. “Yes, Will. That is his name now, although it will soon change. He will have an important part to play in the ifalong. Watch over him, Nyneve.”
Fang, the Gnome
Three different kinds of people …
There were the humans, living in a village. Simple people, apt to be astonished when faced with any of the complexities of the greataway.
There was Nyneve, the once-human, gradually beginning to realize the vastness that surrounded her, recently adopted by—
Merlin and Avalona, superhumans, direct descendants of Starquin, the almighty Five-in-One who roams the greataway forever.
And then, of course, there is me. I remained in the solar system long after Starquin left, because computer terminals like me are not the most mobile of creatures, particularly when the computer we serve covers most of Earth, and has satellite and planetary substations. The Rainbow—as they called it—is that big.
I sing the Song of Earth out of sadness and compassion because the Song is all that is left of the human race. First the stories were told by word of mouth, then through books. Then came the Rainbow, and the first accurate memories. In the Dying Years, when the star-flung members of the human race came home to die with their planet, the stories and legends became a word-of-mouth thing again, springing from chance listenings at Rainbow terminals like myself.
The story I am about to tell took place before the Rainbow was built. It is about the humans, and Nyneve, and the superhuman Merlin and Avalona. Somewhere in there is a mythical being called Arthur, too.
But mostly the story is about gnomes: timid little folk who lived in the forest of Mara Zion, trying hard to live up to the lofty ideals of their forebears, and usually failing.
One such gnome was Will, who lived under a constant threat.
Will was young, as gnomes go, being a mere forty years old. And like most gnomes he had little ambition. He was con
tent to while away his life in idle chatter, in contemplation of the wild plants and creatures, and in drinking beer. The life-expectancy of gnomes was four hundred years, so Will had a lot of idle chatter, contemplation and beer-drinking to look forward to.
Occasionally—very occasionally—Will wondered what life was all about, and why the forest was there, and why he was there. But then, alarmed at the direction his thoughts were taking, he would drink more beer and forget the disturbing questions.
The threat Will lived under was a huge rock embedded loosely in the roof of his dwelling.
Years ago, when Will had left the home where he was born—and his father the Gooligog had told him he was an impetuous young fool who would soon fall victim to the perils of the forest—Will had inherited the dwelling from a decaying badger. The dwelling consisted of two chambers under the bole of an ancient lurch tree: an inner room which Will spent countless hours cleaning and converting into his living quarters; and an outer cave where he kept Thunderer, his rabbit.
The rock hung in the roof of the outer cave. Thunderer, in the perverse way of rabbits, always slept with his head directly under it. Thunderer was a sound sleeper. This meant that Will, too, had to stand under the rock while he woke the rabbit up by shouting into his ear. The shout—and the resultant violent awakening of Thunderer—always caused ominous dribbles of gravel from around the rock.
“Only a reckless young fool would live in a place like this,” the Gooligog said during a rare visit, scuttling nervously under the rock on his way to Will’s door.
“It is my way, father,” said Will airily.
“Your way? What in hell are you talking about, Willie? You moved into this hole just one day after you left the home that’s been good enough for me for three hundred years. You haven’t had time to develop ways.”
“When you’ve spent days moving pieces of rotten badger out of a place,” snapped Will, coming down to earth, “and then days trying to get rid of the stink, you don’t quit because of a rock in the roof. Besides, the roots of the lurch were around the rock when I moved in.”
“They’ve died since. The whole damned tree is dying, Will. Take my advice and move out before the place collapses about your ears.”
The good-natured Will could accept most things, but not his father’s advice. He stayed put, which resulted in Clubfoot Trimble’s remark that he was a gnome who loved danger for its own sake, and would one day make a name for himself in the forest.
“Stubborn young idiot,” muttered the Gooligog. …
One fine spring morning not long after Nyneve’s first visit to gnomedom, Will shut the door quietly behind him, tiptoed past the sleeping Thunderer and the poised rock, and out into a cool, fresh day. Pinkshells and stagworts sparkled with dew and the early sun shot rays like arrows through the forest canopy, transfixing a tumuscle here, a clump of stayawhile there. Birds sang from nearby trees, conveying dire threats to other birds who might be thinking of trespassing. Insects buzzed, clicked, and hummed as they steadfastly consumed the forest and each other.
Will’s spirits rose further. “This is a day for adventure, Thunderer, old friend,” he shouted back into the cave. Gravel pattered onto the rabbit’s head; he twitched his ears and slept on. “We’ll visit King Bison. He’s a fine gnome, always good for a beer or two. Although he has a habit of asking for advice all the time. …
“Maybe we should call on Clubfoot,” said Will. “Good old Clubfoot … or perhaps not. Trish will be there, and Trish always tries to mother me. …
“The Miggot, then … No. Nobody in his right mind would visit the Miggot. People would think I was weird, if such a thing got around,” Will informed the sleeping Thunderer.
Gnomes are solitary creatures, but they love talking. Lacking an intelligent listener, they will hold conversations with rabbits, trees, or anything else that keeps quiet and does not interrupt the flow. Gnomes also tend to have deathly secrets. Rabbits and trees do not blab.
“Maybe we’ll make up our minds after breakfast,” said Will finally, and set off in search of mushrooms. It was common knowledge in gnomedom that mushrooms had to be picked first thing in the morning. When the heat of the sun warmed the forest, the mushrooms drew back into the ground.
Carrying a reed basket, Will trotted down a well-worn path toward the place where mushrooms abounded. It was too early for other gnomes to be about, although from time to time he caught sight of giants in the umbra, moving mistily among the trees, sometimes on horseback.
For thousands of years the gnomes had considered themselves to be the only intelligent beings around. Then, so the legends tell, shadowy figures began to appear at the forest fringes. Huge, two legged creatures became faintly visible against the moorland slopes on sunny days, moving about their business with an air of purpose. The first gnomes to see these visions had scuttled hastily back into the safety of the trees, hearts pounding. But as time went by, it seemed these new creatures were harmless. A gnome could be trodden on by one, and never feel it. They were ghosts living in another world and they were accepted as such, and their world became known to the gnomes as the umbra.
So Will trotted on, unalarmed at the spectral images, and soon he reached the mushroom glade. He was reluctant to touch the circle of fungi that represented Nyneve’s way into his world, but there were plenty of individual mushrooms scattered about. He soon filled his basket, then sat on the grass with his back against a tall and slender whipple that swayed pleasantly in the breeze. He surrendered himself to contemplation, a gentle smile on his lips.
Unknown to him, a pair of sharp eyes watched from the undergrowth. …
From time to time the forest found itself at the mercy of a ferocious beast. Where the daggertooth came from nobody knew, but his depredations were frightful. It was in his nature to seek out and kill harmless creatures such as rabbits and, had they given him half a chance, gnomes. When his stink wafted through the trees the gnomes huddled in their dwellings, scared to venture outside. Sometimes he could be heard sniffing at their very doors.
That morning in the mushroom glade, Will did not smell the daggertooth. It lurked downwind of him, watching, awaiting the moment when he fell asleep, as contemplating gnomes often do.
Will’s thoughts, however, were too interesting for sleep. It has already been said that Will was not ambitious. He did, however, have one single ambition that he prudently kept to himself. It was so perverted and reprehensible that if it had ever come to light he would have been ostracized by all gnomedom—a dreadful fate for a convivial, beer-swilling fellow.
His ambition was—
No.
This is not the time or place to reveal the nature of the secret weevil that nibbled at the edges of Will’s decency. It is enough to say that it concerned a young female gnome who lived alone in a quiet part of the forest.
The Princess of the Willow Tree was a few years younger than Will. She was plump and pretty, with fine, bouncy breasts and a smile which could reduce a hungry timber wolf to slavering adoration.
She didn’t smile very often, however, because she, too, had a guilty secret. Unlike Will’s dirty little ambition, hers was a fine and sorrowful secret that kept her apart from other gnomes, a grand and gothic secret which appalled and shamed her and about which she could do nothing. It had all happened over thirty years ago, which is a mere moment in the memory of gnomes.
Will knew nothing of the Princess’s secret and she, fortunately, knew nothing of his. Sitting against the whipple tree, Will thought about the Princess, and her quiet smile and dainty ways, and what a sad thing it was to be a perverted gnome at the mercy of unnatural urges.
He sighed in sorrow and love, and closed his eyes momentarily.
The daggertooth charged from the bushes, eyes glittering and jaws agape.
Will’s eyelids snapped open. He uttered a single squeal of terror, jumped to his feet and fled, the daggertooth following close behind. Gnomes can move fast when circumstances demand it, but it seemed
to Will that the brute was gaining, and its hot breath seemed to brush the hairs on his very neck. In terrified silence he sped on, his eyes fixed on the distant entrance to his cave. He failed to notice the broad figure of Fat Trish, Clubfoot Trimble’s wife, on a converging path with a basket of fruit. Trish noticed Will and the daggertooth, however. She quickly withdrew behind a tree and began to prepare a mental obituary for the evening’s get-together.
Will reached the outer chamber, his mind racing as fast as his feet. The daggertooth would get him while he was opening the inner door. It would spring at him from behind as he fumbled with the catch. It would bite into his neck and suck him dry of blood. His gray and lifeless corpse would slump to the floor. The daggertooth would belch and lick its lips. Will would be but a memory in the minds of Mara Zion gnomes, soon to be forgotten.
Unless …
Will, scampering for the door, made a quick mental evaluation. A diversion was required. But the only possible diversion would result in the death of Thunderer, his faithful rabbit, companion through many a joyous adventure. So what should it be: his own life, or his rabbit’s? The decision must be made immediately.
And never had his rabbit seemed so worthless.
“Away, Thunderer!” he shouted.
The rabbit jerked into wakefulness and hopped into the sunlight, momentarily distracting the daggertooth. Will reached his door, hauled it open, slipped inside and crashed it shut behind him, shooting the bolt. He heard a heavy thud and a faint squeak, instantly cut off.
He crouched behind his door, appalled at his own cowardice and his callous sacrifice of Thunderer, faithful steed of a thousand rides. A steady chomping was borne to his ears, amplified by the cavernous roof outside.
Will wept, imagining the lifeless eye of Thunderer staring at the sky while the daggertooth feasted on his warm entrails. The vision was particularly unpleasant because gnomes are vegetarians with a distaste for meat bred into their very genes—for good reason, as we shall learn. The chomping had an especially bestial tone, and Will could almost see the daggertooth worrying at a tough sinew—Thunderer had been a powerful, swift animal—and slobbering greedily over the flow of blood.
Fang, the Gnome (Song of Earth) Page 4
