She nodded breathlessly. “The others are getting away from us, Fang. Do you know the way?”
He nodded. “I found the sword,” he said smugly. He urged Thunderer on at a slow hop while the rest of the pack receded into the distance. Even then Nyneve fell behind, having to push her way through dense undergrowth while Thunderer followed tunneled trails. Only at the streams, where Fang had to look for a shallow route, did she catch up and paddle easily across.
Eventually they reached a bowl-shaped dell covered in fine, short grass that resembled a green, hairlike plant Fang had seen his friend Pong harvest from rock pools on the beach. The bushes were low and bore shiny brown spatulate fronds instead of branches. Beyond them, the hillsides rose bare and rocky. A strange, low cloud obscured the hilltops and covered the dell with an opaque ceiling.
Looking up, Fang saw Nyneve reflected upside-down in the rippling underside of the cloud.
In the middle of the dell stood a weathered granite rock similar to Pentor, but smaller. The gnomes were clambering up its smooth shoulder.
“Come on, Nyneve!” King Bison shouted.
She hesitated. “I don’t like the look of that cloud,” she told Fang. “The top of the rock is very close to it.”
“You’ll be all right.” He spoke understandingly, as though she were a timid gnome. “Just keep your head down when you get up there. You can carry me, if you like.”
Soon they stood on a small plateau at the summit of the rock. The cloud looked even more peculiar from here: rippling, reflecting the gnomes and breaking them up into a thousand pewter facets. Fang had the feeling that if Nyneve lifted him into that strangeness, he would never get back.
“You can put me down, now,” he said. Once he could feel the rock beneath his feet, he regained confidence. “It’s only the umbra,” he said.
“No good will come of it,” said the Miggot.
“Look at this!” said King Bison impatiently. “Look, Nyneve!”
The sword lay on a perfectly flat section of granite that appeared to have been cut and polished to receive it. It glittered in the cold light of the dell as though it held fires of its own. Set into the haft was a single glowing emerald. The blade had been forged from a silvery metal, but clearly much harder than silver, to judge from the keen edge. The sword was a thing of wonder, and although Fang had examined it closely yesterday, he found he was unable to take his eyes off it.
“Pick it up, Nyneve!” urged Clubfoot Trimble.
“Oh, no. I couldn’t do that. It’s too beautiful to touch.”
“Swing it around. Carry it down there and take a slash at the bushes. Let’s see how sharp it is!”
“I don’t really think I should touch it, Clubfoot.”
“Why not?”
“I … I think it’s a magic sword.” She stared at it, a slow realization dawning.
“Magic? What do you mean, magic?” The enthusiastic Clubfoot had been dancing around in a fighting posture, drawing on his memory of scenes in the umbra, dispatching imaginary enemies with wild swings of an imaginary sword. Now he stopped, looking at her, puzzled. “Is it the Sword of Agni?”
“No. Human magic. Things you can’t explain. Weird things that Avalona does.”
“Stuff and nonsense!”
“Oh, all right, then.” Not wanting the gnomes to think she was scared, Nyneve bent down and slipped her fingers around the hilt. “It feels … warm. I can’t lift it. It seems almost as though it’s tied down. It just won’t budge an inch.”
Fang said slowly, “Maybe you’re not meant to lift it.”
Nyneve didn’t reply. She’d caught sight of a row of letters etched in the shining blade. She turned away and climbed down from the rock. It was best that she got out of there, quickly.
“Nyneve!” called King Bison. “Where’s she going?” he asked, puzzled.
“I think it’s a secret sword. Something to do with Nyneve’s witch,” said Fang.
“There are giantish runes on it,” said King Bison. “Can anyone read that stuff?”
“Here, let me see.” The Gooligog stumped forward, cast an eye at the engraved letters and brought his prodigious memory to bear. “It doesn’t mean anything,” he said eventually.
“But what does it say?” asked Fang.
“What does it say, Willie?” mimicked his father sarcastically. “Swords don’t talk, you young idiot.”
“Just read it out loud, Gooligog,” snapped the Miggot. “Stop playing the fool.”
There was a brief battle of eye-contact, which the Miggot won, and the Gooligog said gruffly, “ ‘Excalibur.’ ”
“Don’t you mean ‘Excelsior’?” asked Clubfoot Trimble.
Sensing an easier adversary, the Gooligog turned on him. “Are you challenging my memory?” he shrilled. “In all my days as Memorizer, this has never happened to me before. Gnomedom has come to a pretty pass!” He began to climb down from the rock. “The whole of our history is in jeopardy,” he shouted up at them, clambering onto his rabbit. “And if we lose our history, what is there left?” And with this parting shot he urged his rabbit into full gallop, soon passing Nyneve and disappearing into the bush.
“Oh, my,” murmured Clubfoot, eyes wide.
“Don’t worry about it,” said Fang. “I’ve often challenged his memory myself. Gnomedom’s still here.”
“But for how long?” said the Miggot. “Does Nyneve know something she’s not telling us?”
Fang regarded Nyneve’s receding back in some disappointment. He was far more concerned about her odd attitude than by his father’s tantrum. He’d been captivated by the sword.
He’d been on his way to visit Pong the Intrepid, who lived in a cave by the sea, when he’d become disconcerted by the sight of umbral waves tumbling silently overhead. Obviously on the giants’ world the sea came further inland. Those waves looked as though they might fall on him any moment.
He’d discussed the waves with Pong, who’d glanced up at them briefly, then launched into a bitter tirade concerning his nemesis, the lopster. It appeared that the sea teemed with gnome-eating lopsters and someone, probably the Miggot, ought to do something about it.
“How do you know they’re gnome-eating?” asked Fang.
“Why else would they come after me?”
“Perhaps they like you,” said Fang, and received such a hostile reaction from Pong that he left without staying for lunch, and headed inland, out of the reach of the ghostly waves.
Worrying about Pong and his paranoia, he lost track of time and direction. Eventually he found himself in a dell covered by a curious cloud, with a large rock at the center. Being an inquisitive gnome, he climbed the rock and found the sword. Bursting with the excitement of his news, he rode around the scattered gnome settlements and rousted out the inhabitants. They viewed the sword with an interest equal to his own—and, in some cases, dire forebodings.
But Nyneve’s reaction had been disappointing. The last they saw of her was her dark hair, swinging in a chance gust of wind as she walked away through the trees.
The gnomes milled around the top of the rock uncertainly, looking for a lead from someone. King Bison had nothing to say. For a moment he’d thought of shouting, “Mount your rabbits!” but that would have been inappropriate because they had to climb down from the rock first. “Climb down!” sounded somehow defeatist, so he remained silent, regarding the sword in an attitude that—he hoped—suggested analytical thought.
Eventually the Miggot spoke. “This is possibly the most ominous event in the history of gnomedom,” he said portentously.
“I don’t see it that way,” said Elmera.
The Miggot eyed his wife sourly, remembering those years when he and she had struggled in bed for the future of gnomedom, and wondering how he’d ever managed it. “Anyone with a grain of sense would see it that way,” he said.
“I see it that way!” cried Clubfoot enthusiastically.
Clubfoot’s opinion was of so little account that the
Miggot ignored him, continuing, “I’ve watched the giants for over two hundred years now. I’ve watched them breed, and I’ve watched them fight, and I’ve watched them eat, and sleep, and I don’t know which is the worst. They’re addicted to sex and violence and food and drink, and when they’re not doing any of those things, they’re defecating or urinating or vomiting, except when they’re asleep, and sometimes even then. But the fighting is the worst. Has it ever occurred to any of you what life would be like if the giants were actually among us, here on our happentrack, fighting and breeding? There would be no room for us, that’s for sure. They would dig us out of our homes and kill us, and roast us on skewers. And we are so few. It would be the end of gnomedom!”
“I’m hungry!” shouted Clubfoot. “There’s some blackberries down there, see?”
“Where?” asked fat Trish.
“I see what you mean, Miggot,” said Fang, relieved that someone was sharing his worry at last.
“Well, I don’t!”
“Are you sure they’re not loganberries? I can’t stand loganberries.”
“All this is conjecture, Miggot,” said Spector. “The giants aren’t on our happentrack.”
“Nyneve often is. It’s the thin end of the wedge, mark my words!”
“Nyneve is our friend,” objected Fang hotly, loyalty overcoming his uneasiness.
The Miggot backed up a step, sensing a mad gleam in the eyes of the unpredictable young Fang, who had bested the daggertooth. “And now the sword,” he said hastily.
“What do you mean, and now the sword?” asked Elmera, who hadn’t been listening. “Is it Agni you’re talking about?”
“Listen, you gnomes can stand here gossiping all day, if you like,” said Clubfoot, scrambling down from the rock. “Trish and I are going to eat.”
“And now the sword is here. Another giantish presence in our midst. I don’t like it. I don’t know where it will all end. Hasn’t it seemed to you, lately, that the umbra is getting closer?”
For a moment he had their grudging attention. “Now you come to mention it,” said King Bison, “I thought I heard a giant shouting, yesterday. I actually heard a sound from him, faintly. I’m almost sure I did.”
“You’re right, Bison,” said Lady Duck.
“So what are you going to do about it, Bison?” asked the Miggot.
“What am I going to do about it? It was your suggestion!”
“I made no suggestion. I simply pointed out the growing danger to gnomedom. You’re our leader. What’s your plan?”
Trapped, King Bison stared thoughtfully at the rippling cloud. A dozen reflected Miggots stared back at him with pointed faces, like a platoon of rats. He looked away hastily. “The matter is too important for snap decisions,” he said at last.
“Hear, hear!” cried Lady Duck.
“Everyone must be given a chance to have their say,” pursued Bison, encouraged. “This is a matter for all gnomedom. We will consult with other gnomish settlements. We will send the word out far and wide!” He began to climb down to the ground.
“And meanwhile the umbra is upon us,” snarled the Miggot, following.
“And we will consult the Gooligog. Where is he, by the way?”
“He buggered off.” Fang couldn’t keep the resentment out of his voice. “He took umbrage and buggered off.”
“In our hour of need,” added Lady Duck indignantly.
“He’ll be skulking in his hovel by now,” old Crotchet guessed.
“Actually,” said Fang quickly, his loyalties aroused, “the Gooligog’s dwelling is very pleasant. I have many happy childhood memories of that little home.”
“We will confront the Gooligog,” said Bison confidently, “and have him check his memory. The answer to the umbra may lie in the past. This is quite probably a cyclic phenomenon. Mount your rabbits, gnomes!”
The Gooligog’s wife had died of a swamp-induced fever years ago, and Fang had left the dank burrow as soon as he was politely able to. This might imply that the Gooligog lived a lonely life, but such was not the case. At monthly intervals he held court at the hollow log. Here the gnomes assembled, and told him everything that had happened recently.
He enjoyed a position of great prestige. It was his responsibility to decide which of the month’s events were sufficiently important to warrant committing to his prodigious memory. He’d impressed on the gnomes that the main reason for their existence was to gather data in preparation for the Ascension—although he couldn’t quite remember what the Ascension was. It would, however, be a great and glorious occasion, in anticipation of which the Gooligog had built a religious aura around it, with himself in a central position. Meanwhile, learning and knowledge were paramount; ancestors were to be venerated; the Ascension was all.
Such a gnome should not have a son, since it is in the nature of sons to scoff at their father’s beliefs. Fang did not venerate the Gooligog; neither did he venerate any of his forebears. “If they were so great,” he once said, “why don’t you teach me to memorize, so that I’ll know all about them and maybe appreciate them better?”
“All gnomes can memorize,” the Gooligog had replied loftily. “The ability lies in a separate lobe of the brain. The entire contents are passed from one generation to the next, genetically.”
“You mean I already have all your memories?” Fang had asked, wondering what horrors were lurking within his cranium.
“All those accumulated before you were born. Countless generations of remembered facts and events. The memory is the most wonderful thing on Earth, Willie.”
“So why can’t I remember all that stuff?”
“Because I haven’t taught you the techniques for drawing it out, or educing, as we Memorizers call it. And it’s possible I never shall. A Memorizer is not obliged to pass on his memory to his son. His duty is to pick the most suitable person in the region. There was a young girl I came across last year,” the Gooligog continued, ruminating. “She couldn’t have been more than fifty years old. But she was mature in many ways. …”
“Suit yourself, father,” said Fang, piqued.
“There will be a great teaching one day.” The Gooligog’s countenance took on a saintly expression, eyes distant and serene, mouth gently smiling. “A great teaching,” he repeated, pleased with the image of himself and a devoted disciple. Then he looked stern. “That is why it is essential that the trainee Memorizer is mature and discriminating. If he was unable to place events in their proper context, he would accumulate so many facts that his memory would burst, and everything would be lost. You, Willie, have a regrettable tendency to exaggerate trivia.”
Fang groaned. “That damned daggertooth again.”
“I will not memorize the daggertooth.”
“I don’t care whether you do or not.”
“And that’s another reason why I have doubts about teaching you to educe. Your mind is already full of nonsense and lies. Unwittingly, you could commit to memory a mass of rubbish!”
“Well, teach someone else, then. See if I care!”
“Memorizing is a sacred trust—”
“Oh, no!”
“—and you must command the respect of your people. It is important that the gnomes trust you to remember only what is worthy, and not to slant the facts to suit your own biases.”
Fang had left that particular discussion feeling depressed and inferior. Surely his father could not teach a stranger to educe? Such a person might already have generations of undisciplined garbage stuffed into his memory lobe, and the sudden ability to recall it all would drive him crazy. No, the Gooligog would not take that chance. He would be obliged to teach Fang to educe, but in his own good time. It was an infuriating situation.
The gnomes reached the entrance to the Gooligog’s burrow and eared their rabbits to a halt. Fang proceeded alone and thumped on the moss-coated door, turning his fist green.
The Gooligog’s face appeared, scowling. “It’s you, Willie, is it? What do you want this ti
me?” Then he caught sight of the mounted throng and hastily assumed a beatific expression. This was clearly an official visit.
Fang explained the purpose.
“And so some of us are very worried,” he concluded. “The Miggot in particular. He says the umbra is coming nearer, and the time will come when the giants are here on … How did it go, Miggot?”
“On this happentrack, fighting and breeding,” called the Miggot.
“… fighting and breeding. And there won’t be any room for us. And they’ll stick skewers right through us, in at our bottoms and out of our mouths, and roast us over their fires, turning us so we cook evenly.”
The Gooligog swallowed heavily, aware of a prickling sensation between his buttocks. “I fully understand, Willie. But why have you all come to me? What can I do about the umbra?”
“You must consult your memory!” shouted King Bison.
“My memory goes backward, not forward. Gnomes were not roasted in my memory.”
“But the past may hold a clue!” The knowledge that the rest of the gnomes supported him gave Bison confidence to deal with the irascible Memorizer. “There may be a trend. Recall, Gooligog!”
“One does not educe just like that. One undergoes a period of preparation. One contemplates. And then, if the signs are right, one steps gently into the halls of history.”
“We don’t have time for all that stuff,” shouted Bison. “Dismount, gnomes!” And the gnomes climbed off their rabbits, found themselves dry places on the marshy ground and sat down in attitudes of expectation. “Recall, Gooligog!” commanded King Bison.
The Gooligog, realizing they were not to be put off, sat down too, closing his eyes. He fought back his sense of outrage—after all, did they think memory could be turned on and off like a spigot?—and began to dig into the past. Fragments of events passed before his mind’s eye. He saw ghostly riders on moorland paths. He saw gnomish feasts and births and deaths. He saw the collapse of the Wild Wart Society. He saw himself tussling unhappily in the throes of sex with his wife, and he saw the birth of Willie. This made a connection and suddenly he was seeing Willie more recently, muscles rippling as he leaped nimbly onto the back of his rabbit. “Away, Thunderer!” Willie cried, and the Rock of Retribution fell. …
Fang, the Gnome (Song of Earth) Page 9
