“It got worse. Over a few decades the climate changed. The fog disappeared and the wolves came back. In clear daylight the fogdogs were no match for them. So the fog-dogs have become nocturnal. They hide during the day and they hunt across the moor at night, when the wolves can’t see them. So Hal’s trapped. There’s never a time when he can go out in safety, day or night.”
“So why doesn’t the stupid gnome come down to Mara Zion?” Trish asked.
“I asked him that, but I couldn’t really make any sense of what he said. It was something about his father and his grandfather, who he called his father before him. What they have to do with it I don’t know, because they’re both dead.”
A high-pitched, cracked voice spoke up. “I remember his father. He was another bloody fool. His wife left him too.” It was old Crotchet talking.
A general discussion broke out and Fang drifted away from the group in the hope that he might get close to the Princess of the Willow Tree. He saw Nyneve watching him closely, Earth’s moons positioned above her head like a tiara. Clubfoot was right. She was pretty. But much too big. She beckoned to him and he walked to the edge of the floor. She held her hand out and he stepped onto it, and was carried up to her lips.
“Fang, tell me the truth,” she whispered, her breath dislodging his cap so that he had to grab for it. “Did you see the fogdogs?”
“No,” he admitted. “I didn’t see any wolves, either. But the fogdogs are there, all right. Hal hears them snuffling around the rocks at night, and his cabbages have turned yellow. … Why do you want to know, Nyneve?”
“Avalona sometimes goes up there. I’d rather know what she might run into.”
“But the fogdogs aren’t in your world. They’re our side of the umbra, aren’t they?”
Nyneve’s reply sent a shiver down his spine. “Sometimes it’s not too easy to tell the difference. I mean, I’m here, aren’t I?”
“But you came through the ring. Didn’t you?”
“Of course I did, Fang.”
She put him back on the log and he rejoined the celebrations, but for him the evening was spoiled. He couldn’t help thinking what it would mean if giants and gnomes ever found themselves living on the same world.
They’d all seen the giants in action in the umbra. They were violent and bloodthirsty and had no moral sense whatever.
He glanced at Nyneve and saw her watching him, her face cupped in her hands, her eyes grave.
The Forging of Excalibur
Brush your hair and don’t be rude,
Sit up straight and eat your food,
Always show your gratitude,
Or Morble’s going to get you!
—Gnomish nursery rhyme
“Merlin,” said Nyneve one morning, “you’ve lived a long time.”
“That’s true,” agreed the ancient, shooting her a suspicious glance. “But I’m still in possession of all my faculties.” He’d been spending the last two days building a large stone fireplace at the back of the cottage. Working late last night, he’d stitched together an enormous bellows of calf hide. “You can’t pull the wool over my eyes, my girl,” he grunted, as he pumped the bellows vigorously with his foot. The coals in the open grate began to glow brightly.
“I wasn’t trying to pull the wool over your eyes,” said Nyneve indignantly. “I just wanted to ask you something.”
“Ask away;” He pumped on, staring greedily into the flames.
“I keep coming across two gnomish words that nobody can explain: ‘Kikihuahua,’ and ‘Agni.’ ”
“You can’t beat a good blaze.”
“You must have come across those words at some time in the past. You’ve been to gnomedom.”
“Once,” said the old wizard, a faraway look in his eyes. “A peasant farmer insulted me. He called me a bloody old fraud. Just because he’d called me in too late to cure a sick cow. Do you know what I did to that bastard?” He slapped his skinny thigh, neighing with laughter. “I told him I’d put a curse on him. Then a couple of nights later I crept out and set fire to his barn. You should have seen the flames! The sky turned red. It was a wonderful sight. Throw some more charcoal on for me, will you?”
Nyneve sighed. She knew better than to try to change Merlin’s chosen topic of conversation. “That was a horrible thing to do.”
“More charcoal! More charcoal!” He pumped with astonishing vigor. The coals in the center of the furnace were turning a somewhat alarming white, outglowing the morning sun. The roar was deafening. It culminated in an ear-splitting report. “God damn it!” screamed Merlin as the bellows burst under his foot, the sudden loss of resistance sending him tottering towards the flames.
“Careful!” Nyneve grabbed his arm.
Mopping his brow with a filthy cloth, he bent to examine the damage. “Bloody leather’s no good at all,” he muttered, poking a skeletal finger into the split. “I’ve been swindled. It’s that crook Lamorak sold me this garbage. I’ll see he pays for this. He’ll rue the day. “I’ll—”
“Please don’t, Merlin. I’ll sew it for you. What’s it all for, anyway?”
He straightened up, pink-faced, and his expression grew cunning. “A sword. I’m going to forge a sword. Such a sword as the world has never seen before. With this sword in his hand,” he said, warming to his theme, “a man will never be defeated in battle, but will rise glorious against all odds, sending his enemies howling and cowering in abject defeat. With this sword—”
“And you’re doing all this yourself? I didn’t know you made swords. That’s very clever of you, Merlin.”
“Well, I’m getting a little help from Avalona, of course. But that’s just in a matter of happentracks. The forging of the sword will be my own work.”
Nyneve began to edge away as Merlin launched into a history of his career as a swordmaker which, she suspected, would probably span many thousands of years and include such notable clients as Attila the Hun and Genghis Khan. She was not really interested in the sword. Her main interest these days was the fascinating world of gnomedom.
The gnomes seemed to know so much about their world, down to the tiniest detail of a leaf or an insect. And yet there was a great void in their history that they were totally unable to explain. This void included the meaning of kikihuahua and Agni. It seemed they knew the origin of every animal and every tree in the forest, yet they were unable to account for their own presence. “We are kind and good,” the Miggot had told her unctuously, “and is that not enough? What more do we need to know?”
Pan had told Nyneve that the gnomes could remember everything that ever happened, and this was true. It is one thing to remember, however, but quite a different thing to recall those memories. It was the special power of Memorizers like the Gooligog that they were able to recall facts that in other gnomes lay locked away in a third lobe of the brain.
Yesterday, Nyneve had asked the Gooligog the meaning of the words “kikihuahua” and “Agni”.
He had scowled. “That is a matter of gnomish concern only. Did that young fool Willie put you up to this? He’s always yattering on about the meaning of things. He spends too much time with Spector, if you ask me.”
“It struck me as strange that nobody knows. The words have been passed down by word of mouth, but nobody knows what they really mean. You must know, Gooligog. You’re the Memorizer.”
“They’re holy words!” he snapped. “Mind your own damned business!”
The red-capped figure went scuttling irately into the undergrowth, and she was left alone in the forest. What a horrid little gnome! she thought. Poor Fang. What an awful childhood he must have had!
But she was doing the Gooligog an injustice. His irascibility in this case was due to guilt, rather than natural unpleasantness. He, too, would have dearly loved to know the meaning of the two mystery words, but whenever he searched his memory in that direction he came up against a mind-freezing block beyond which he did not have the courage to penetrate. And for a Memorizer to be un
able to recall was a dreadful thing.
The block had come about like this:
Thousands of years ago, Avalona had examined the ifalong and foreseen problems for Starquin. At that time it was not possible to ascertain the full extent of the catastrophe. However, it became clear that the gnomes would one day play a big part in any solution, so she visited their happentrack to prepare them. At the same time she arranged a small measure of protection for herself.
In those far-off days, the Sharan was in the charge of a gnome called Knuckles, who undertook his duties in a tough and uncompromising manner. He scorned the delaying tactics and rule-quoting that characterized his distant successor, the Miggot of One. Instead, he dealt with impractical Suggestions in the forthright way that earned him his name. He was not a popular gnome; but then, the guardian of the Sharan rarely was.
He was attending to the Sharan, who was giving birth to a new short-legged deer for mountain use, when he became aware of a presence nearby. He looked up.
A giant female figure towered over him.
In Knuckles’s time, the umbra, although faintly visible, had no physical connection with his world. The fungus rings did not exist. Nothing had prepared him for this terrifying apparition. He shrank back against the silken flank of the Sharan. “Who are you?” he managed to ask.
“I am Avalona,” replied the giantess in thunderous tones.
“You’re so … so big.”
“And you’re so small, which is why you’re going to do exactly as I tell you. Although on certain happentracks,” she continued pensively, “you will not obey me, and I will turn you into a mushroom.”
“I will obey you,” Knuckles assured her.
By now a number of gnomes had crept close and were watching the humbling of Knuckles from the cover of the undergrowth. One of these gnomes was Tremor, the Memorizer of the time and a gnome of fertile imagination. Tremor was the Gooligog’s ancestor, although there were twenty-six generations between them.
“You will instruct the Sharan to build me a creature,” said the witch. “It must be as swift as a deer, strong as a lion, savage as a leopard and venomous as a viper. Since some of those animals are unknown to you, I will provide the material.” She handed over a package which seeped blood, and went on to describe in detail the scenario that Knuckles was to construct for the Sharan.
During Avalona’s description of her requirements, two things happened. Firstly, Knuckles became aware of the audience and the effect this humiliation would have on his standing in gnomedom. Secondly, he began to wonder if the giantess was real, or perhaps merely a particularly vivid manifestation of the umbra.
He plucked up courage. Beard jutting, he stared belligerently up at her. “That beast would be for your personal use,” he said. “It would not benefit the world. You’re asking me to abuse my guardianship of the Sharan.” He drew a deep breath. “I won’t do it!”
Avalona sighed. Where Knuckles had been, there now stood a small, gray mushroom. A whisper of awe came from the bushes, and a small scream. The scream had been Tremor’s. Unable to control his own imagination, he’d seen himself frying and eating the mushroom. It was a scenario so appallingly alien to the spirit of the Kikihuahua Examples that he was quite sure a dreadful retribution would be visited upon him.
In this he was correct, and the retribution came sooner than any fair-minded gnome would have expected.
“Who will succeed this foolish gnome as guardian of the Sharan?” the witch asked. Although every gnome present had at some time or other said he could do a better job than Knuckles, on this occasion there were no takers. “Are you all forsaking your duty?” asked the witch.
“We have to nominate alternative successors,” came a small voice, “and vote on it.”
“Then do that.”
“I nominate Tremor!” came a hasty cry.
“I second that!”
The gnomes emerged from cover, carrying their struggling nominee, and presented him to Avalona. A vote was quickly called and there was a chorus of “Aye!”
Tremor was the new guardian.
“It is out of order for me to wear two caps!” he cried. “I’m already our Memorizer!”
“You will build the creature I want,” said the witch, ignoring his protest, “and you will raise it to adulthood. Then I will take it from you.”
“What … what sex should it be?” asked Tremor.
“It doesn’t matter. There will be only one.”
“But it must be able to reproduce. That’s our law!”
“Before you start talking about your laws, Tremor, I suggest you remember what happened to Knuckles.” The witch’s voice was icy. “I will give you a new law, and it is this. You will obey my every command or it will be the worse for you. Mark my words!”
She strode away and the gnomes regarded one another fearfully. Her last words hung in the air like a thundercloud. New factors had entered the forest of Mara Zion.
So Tremor, sick with dread, fed the ingredients to the Sharan. Pan, significantly more cooperative than usual, projected images into the unicorn’s mind, building an imaginary scenario in which only a certain type of creature could survive—a creature swift as a deer, strong as a lion, savage as a leopard and venomous as a viper. And the poor, protective Sharan, convinced that Pan’s world was real, reassembled Avalona’s genetic material into a creature able to survive it. That was the Sharan’s ability: to make the best possible children. She was a perfect mother, deluded by Pan.
The creature lived in the forest of Mara Zion, under the care of the gnomes, for several years. As it approached adulthood, it proved quite capable of taking care of itself, and the onerous task of catering to its healthy appetite was no longer necessary. Then one day Avalona appeared again.
“You have done well,” she told the gnomes. “And I am going to reward you.”
There was a murmur of apprehension. “It’s been no trouble, really,” said Tremor. “It’s been a privilege.”
“We wouldn’t want you to think we did this for reward,” said someone else, edging away.
Tremor summed it up. “We’re not asking for anything in return. Just take the creature away, like you said you would. That’s all the reward we ask.” He smiled up at the witch nervously.
“I said I would take the creature from you,” said Avalona, “and I have done so. It is now mine. I will summon it to my happentrack whenever I need it. At other times it will remain on your happentrack.”
“What’s a happentrack?” someone asked.
“A frame of existence. I exist on one—together with the humans you call giants—and you exist on another. At present I am the only person who can cross from one happentrack to another.”
“At present?”
“I can foresee a time when you may have other visitors.”
“That … that will be nice. But meanwhile,” said Tremor, “that is to say, now, the monst—the creature will stay with us, if I understand you correctly.” He smiled woodenly. We were under a slight misapprehension, but all that’s cleared up now, and things couldn’t be better. The creature stays here, am I correct?”
“Except when I need him. Now, come to me, gnomes. One at a time. You first, Tremor!”
She placed her hand on Tremor’s head for a moment, and when she took it away Tremor was changed. He uttered a strange word.
“What did you say?” someone asked.
Tremor looked at him in sudden bewilderment, and came out with a string of odd sounds.
“He won’t understand you, neither will you understand him,” said Avalona, “until I’ve touched you all.”
“But we don’t want to be touched!” They regarded Tremor fearfully. The guardian of the Sharan appeared to have degenerated into something little better than an animal, and was mouthing meaningless sounds never before heard in gnomedom, meanwhile looking increasingly puzzled and unhappy.
“I’m making you the gift of a new language,” said Avalona.
“Really, we find our present language quite satisfactory. You don’t have to go to all this trouble. …”
“If I don’t do this, your race will become extinct too soon. You will be unable to make yourself understood among other bipedal species and you will consequently be unable to fulfill my purpose. This will change the whole nature of the ifalong. Starquin will die. I cannot allow that.”
So one by one the gnomes were touched, and learned the new language. And when the last gnome was touched they began to speak to one another as though nothing had happened. They could all speak, and they could all understand.
What was more, the new language was much richer than the old, with a greater subtlety of meaning and a new poetry. It was capable of expressing concepts the gnomes had not even considered before. In the evenings they would gather around their fires and philosophize about the world and their place in it, and the words would flow easily from their minds and their lips.
Tremor continued in his duties as guardian of the Sharan and—due to his easygoing disposition—was more popular than most such officials. But as a Memorizer he was unreliable. Awake or asleep, he could not rid his mind of the monstrous, black-cloaked witch, and the succulent object into which she had transformed Knuckles. Since his every memory led naturally through that point in time, he found it pleasanter not to probe too far into the past, and the meaning of the words “kikihuahua” and “Agni” were forgotten for a while.
Meanwhile the monster—sometimes called a dragon, sometimes a pteroglyph—roamed the forests and, by and large, left the gnomes alone. Indeed, there were times when they would admit that it was an asset to them, because few predators or evil giants cared to enter the forest of Mara Zion while it was around. It roared and stamped, stripping the leaves from the trees as it struggled unsuccessfully to leave the ground on vestigial wings. (Unknown to Avalona, a blowfly had laid its eggs in the ingredients fed to the Sharan.)
Sometimes, perhaps once a century, it became quiet. Some say the witch possessed its mind at those times, others held that it was pining for a mate. Whatever the reason, it would leave the forest and climb into the open moorland or the coastal cliffs, where it would remain for a full season.
Fang, the Gnome (Song of Earth) Page 7
