By the Sword of Agni! He’d accidentally memorized the ridiculous daggertooth incident! It would go forward through countless generations of gnomish history! His eyes jerked open.
The gnomes leaned forward expectantly.
“Give me time—give me time!” he snapped, and resumed his attitude of meditation.
Now he slipped into the memories of his father, and he watched his mother cooking. They had lived in the bole of a hollow tree. These were happy memories of a happy gnome—and, thought the Gooligog, a none-too-responsible gnome. His father had no right to clutter up his memory lobe with all this personal dross.
Then came something sickening: a battle in the umbra. Opposing armies clashed, huge swords were wielded, flesh spurted blood. The images had been too powerful for his father to forget, and the Gooligog moved on hastily. More scenes in the umbra showed a smaller Mara Zion village, and different people. Humans did not live long.
The Gooligog went back through generation after generation of Memorizers; millennia of gnomish history, peoples, things, the gradual development of gnomedom in reverse; pausing whenever he came across an interesting event and scanning forward, seeing the development of new animal forms by the Miggot’s predecessors, seeing famous gnomes come and go.
He saw a gnome called Tremor creating the pteroglyph. … And he saw the witch Avalona.
He shuddered and tried to blank out the image of this black, menacing giant who had so terrified Tremor and the gnomes of Mara Zion. Who was she? The whole memory was tainted with fear. This was a giant like no other giant, quite different from the pleasant Nyneve—and yet, like Nyneve, she could bridge happentracks. And if she had visited gnomedom once, she could visit it again, because she looked the type of person who would live forever. The Gooligog could remember the first time Nyneve had materialized, and how careful she had been not to frighten anyone. But this monster with the black, swirling cloak … her very purpose was to terrify. Roasting on a skewer would be a picnic compared to meeting this ghastly thing! The Gooligog shuddered again, and the watching gnomes murmured in apprehension, wondering what frightful image possessed him.
The Gooligog tried to push his way past Tremor’s meeting with Avalona, but he could not. The memory was like an evil swamp, bogging down every attempt to step beyond it.
He began to wonder if the problem was himself. Was he becoming enfeebled? Would a younger, stronger mind be able to force itself boldly past that single ghastly memory, and uncover early history? All Memorizers lost their powers eventually, but by that time they’d usually passed their memories on.
He felt tired and discouraged. Sooner or later he’d have to teach that wretched Willie to educe. He opened his eyes.
“Well?” the gnomes asked.
“There’s nothing,” he lied. “The umbra’s always been there, and I believe it always will. There’s no question of it coming closer. That’s just nonsense.” The effort of remembering had drained him. He needed to sleep. “Go away, all of you.”
They stood, if reluctantly. “Are you sure about that, Father?” asked Fang. “Didn’t the umbra seem a little fainter, a long time ago?”
This was intolerable. “Watch your tongue, Willie!” snarled the Gooligog. “Are you disputing my memory?”
“No. I just wondered if—”
“You wonder too much, that’s your trouble. You see mysteries where none exist. You ought to accept things, and go with Time like a good gnome should.” The Gooligog’s irate gaze swept over the company. “Now go back to your dwellings, all of you, and let’s hear no more nonsense about the umbra!” He swung round and stumped back down his burrow. His mangy housemouse appeared at the entrance and glowered at them with red-rimmed eyes.
Fang looked at King Bison helplessly. He knew his father. He was sure the old fool was hiding something. Otherwise what had all that shuddering been about? “Perhaps we should try again when he’s in a better mood,” he suggested.
But Bison and the others appeared satisfied. “The Gooligog has spoken, Fang,” said the chief. “And we have heard. The matter is closed.”
Fang looked to the Miggot for support, but the Miggot’s thoughts seemed to be elsewhere as he fastidiously brushed his rabbit’s back before mounting. When the Miggot’s eyes finally met Fang’s, they were blank. One by one the rabbits hopped off into the forest, bearing the gnomes back to their dwellings.
Chivalry Is Born
The coast around Mara Zion was notorious for its perils. In winter, easterly gales would sweep up the channel. The little boats of those days could find scant shelter among the rocky cliffs and threatening headlands, where the waves surged and sucked and threw up geysers of spray. In summer, the gales would blow from the west. They were fewer and generally milder, and a handful of tiny inlets could be counted upon to provide shelter of a sort. One of such inlets was located at Mara Zion. Here there was a narrow sandy beach.
Humans and gnomes had differing perceptions of the beach. Humans saw it as a point of arrival or departure by sea, and a convenient resting place for travelers following the coastal paths.
The gnomes saw the beach as the end of everything. Their beloved forest ended at the beach, to be replaced by the dreadful endless sea. The sea level was much lower in the gnome’s world, and umbral waves swept overhead like galloping clouds. The beach was an eerie spot. A stream ran across the sand, fed by unknown upwellings at the dank edge of the forest.
“No gnome in his right mind would live near the beach,” said the Miggot.
Pong the Intrepid lived near the beach, in a cave carved into the base of the cliff by ancient tides. Pong even had a boat in which, it was said, he would set off on mysterious voyages across the wild and terrible ocean. In point of fact he never sailed further than the next inlet. Pong was a cautious sailor. He never set sail when the strands of seaweed that he kept hanging in his cave were damp. South winds would keep him landbound, too. So would the menacing winter easterlies, or the fickle summer westerlies. Pong used clouds, too, to judge the weather, and was especially wary of the warning shapes of cumulus, cirrus, and nimbus.
Pong’s father had been a sailor, and his grandfather, too, who had taught Pong an old gnomish couplet:
Red sky in the morning, sailor’s warning.
Red sky at night, sailor’s blight.
Pong the Intrepid’s courage and weatherwisdom was much admired by the gnomes of Mara Zion, except the Miggot. Although his title was hereditary, it was felt that he had earned it.
Pong himself was not so sure, and privately was a gnome assailed by timidity and self-doubt. He had barricaded his cave against marauding lopsters and slept on a high shelf, because he wouldn’t put it past the brutes to break the door down. In many ways he was as beleaguered a gnome as Hal o’ the Moor; and each, in his way, was a prisoner of his own name.
On a nearby happentrack, the beach was a favorite meeting place for the villagers of Mara Zion. To them it was a romantic and intimate spot. It was squeezed between cliffs so that the waves, rebounding from the rock faces, would rush and swirl over the sand and cause the unwary to jump back in sudden fright. Their fear was justified, because in any kind of southwesterly swell the waves were dangerous, and had been known to suck people out to sea, never to be seen again.
So, as the villagers relaxed on the warmth of the sand, there was always at the back of their minds a frisson of expectation as the waves came and went. This, of course, increased the beach’s popularity.
It was further enhanced by the regular presence of the beautiful Nyneve, who had recently got into the habit of telling strange and wonderful stories, so real that you could actually see them happening, as she perched on a rock below the cliff, and the westering sun tinted her hair and turned her skin to smooth copper.
A week after Fang’s discovery of the sword, about twenty villagers sat around Nyneve’s feet, waiting for her to begin. Her stories unfolded a continuing saga, and this evening she had promised to tell them what happened to the
young man Arthur, who had been raised by the senile and lecherous Merlin, and for whom the ifalong held great things.
Nyneve was looking at the forest, a slight frown on her face. She could see a single tree that was recognizably umbral by its shadowy appearance, but everything else was firm and clear, and probably existed on both happentracks.
“The story, Nyneve!” somebody prompted her.
She shook her head and concentrated. Visions of the recent pretending game with Merlin and Avalona filled her mind.
“So King Uther died,” she began, “and a very good thing it was, because he was a dirty old man. His son Arthur was different, though.” And here the more observant villagers detected a faint flush on her perfect cheek. “He was very handsome, kind and clever, despite having been taught by that old fool Merlin, and raised in the house of Sir Ector.”
“Nyneve!” called a voice. “If you dislike living with Merlin so much, you can always come and live with me!”
“Even Merlin is better than you, Ned.”
“Shut up, Palomides.” This from Tristan.
“And anyway, Merlin in the story isn’t the same person as Merlin in the cottage,” lied Nyneve. “Now … With Uther dead, the barons began to fight for the throne. Then one day a big block of marble appeared in a church in London, with a sword stuck in it.”
“But how …?”
The questioner’s voice trailed off, because a vision slipped into the minds of the assembly, and for a moment they saw the marble block and the sword.
The sword passed first through an iron anvil, and on the anvil these words were inscribed:
WHOSO PULLETH OUTE THIS SWERD OF THIS STONE AND ANVYLD IS RIGHTWYS KYNGE BORNE OF ALL BRYTAYGNE
The vision of the anvil flashed before the villagers and was gone. Even though only Tristan among them could read, they knew what the words meant. They sighed happily. This was romance.
“Sir Kay, Ector’s son, had recently been knighted,” said Nyneve, “and so he spent a lot of time being nice to women.” She stared pointedly at the more obnoxious men in her audience. They grinned weakly and shifted their feet. “He rode to London and tried to pull the sword from the stone. And he failed, like everyone else had done. It was stuck tight. Nobody could pull that sword out.
“So they held a tournament to decide who would be king, and to hell with the sword. Young Arthur was Sir Kay’s squire. Sir Kay found he’d left his own sword behind at their lodging, so he sent Arthur back to fetch it. But Arthur found the place all locked up. He was worried because he liked Kay and didn’t want to spoil his chances in the tournament. He felt Kay would make as good a king as anyone.
“Then he caught sight of a sword stuck in a stone, and thought it was worth trying to pull it out. The marble slab sat in the churchyard under the trees, glowing in the sunlight. There was a sound like angels singing. It was a warm day and Arthur’s hand tingled as he took hold of the sword.”
Briefly the villagers saw it all, heard it all and were delighted. It was a wonderful moment. Perhaps they were only birds singing, but they did sound like angels. Nyneve sat on her storytelling rock and seemed just as enchanted by the story as everyone else.
Her voice was a little breathless as she repeated, “He took hold of the sword. He braced his foot against the rock. And then … he drew the sword out easily, as if it had been embedded in butter. For a while he stood with it in his hand.”
… with the sunlight on his auburn hair, shafting down through the trees. He had not read the words. He didn’t know what he’d done. He was young and innocent, and he’d never even thought of being king. The villagers shared it all with Nyneve. The women were smiling, but there was a slight frown on Palomides’s face. Then he shook his head and the vision was gone.
“I thought you said the damned thing was stuck there,” he said.
“It was.”
“So how in hell could he pull it out? What is he, this Arthur of yours? Some kind of god?”
‘No, he’s just a man. A very nice, good man.”
“An ordinary man couldn’t have pulled it out. You said so yourself.”
It seemed a pity to explain, to destroy the magic. But the men in her audience seemed skeptical of Arthur. “You remember I told you about happentracks? The sword existed on two very close happentracks, and just as Arthur took hold of it, those happentracks came together. In the instant he pulled, the sword, the anvil and the stone were all vibrating in time and space—that’s why his hand tingled. The sword was loose for an instant. The happentracks had joined and he was going to be king, and a new ifalong of England was decided.”
“The stone was soft?”
“No, not soft. It only seemed that way. Avalona says everything’s made of tiny specks, but there are so many of them that they seem solid. The joining happentracks stirred up these specks.”
Palomides stood, hefting a rock. He hurled it against a cliff. It shattered, and shards cascaded to the beach. “Listen, Nyneve, I’ve swallowed your stupid happentrack notion, but I can’t swallow specks. That rock was solid. Any fool can see that.”
Up spoke Torre. “This is a story, Ned. Don’t call Nyneve a liar just because she’s telling a story.”
There was a murmur of agreement.
“Nyneve doesn’t know where the story ends and reality begins,” said Palomides weakly, realizing the audience was against him.
“So what happened next, Nyneve?” asked Tristan.
“Nobody believed Arthur, so they stuck the sword back into the stone and other people tried to pull it out. They couldn’t. Then Arthur took hold and pulled—and out it came, as easily as anything. This was the true conjunction of happentracks that would set the next train of history in motion. So they crowned him king of all England.”
“That’s a lot of land,” said Torre, impressed with the vision of a vast empire. “It’s more than Baron Menheniot lays claim to, even.”
The audience settled back comfortably, seeing shining armor and bright banners of gold and silk, and looking forward to a few bloody battles as Arthur struggled to hold his kingdom against all comers. Their expectations were dashed, however, by a remark from a small, dark-haired youth called Governayle.
“I don’t want to spoil your story, Nyneve, but that looks like an Irish boat to me.” He pointed out to sea.
The Irish had been a serious problem to the coastal villages for the last six years. They had arrived one day in rough-hewn boats which disgorged small, well-organized fighting parties onto the beaches of Cornwall. These quickly overran the Cornish defenses, captured a handful of villages and claimed them in the name of King Angwyshaunce. Then they departed, taking with them a selection of the more attractive women and various chattels. In subsequent years they returned, demanding tribute on the legal premise that the villages, having once been captured, were now Irish property. The Cornish were unable to organize themselves against the Irish because they never knew when or where the next landing would take place. The Irish were fierce fighters, well-armored and savage, and Mara Zion became accustomed to giving them what they wanted. Since the village already paid fealty to the Baron, this became a crippling burden on their economy.
The small craft drew closer. At least three dozen warriors could be seen pulling at the oars under weather-stained sails. It was a measure of Irish confidence that a woman stood at the stern, chatting to the boat’s captain as they scanned the shore.
“We’d better run for it,” said Governayle.
The villagers began to gather up their belongings, grumbling. If they returned to the village, the Irish would arrive within the hour, demanding food and drink and, in due course, tribute. If they hid in the forest, the Irish would occupy the village, eat and drink whatever they could find, and burn down the buildings before leaving. If they stayed on the beach, they would be marched forcibly to the village and subjected to indignities on the way. Resignedly they began to move up the valley path.
“Wait!” shouted Tristan.
“There’s no point in meeting those bastards before we have to!” Palomides called from his position at the head of the retreating column.
“Do we have to run away every time?” Tristan yelled back.
“Of course we do!” Palomides yelled back. “Unless you have a better idea!”
“Well. …” Tristan looked at the approaching boat for a moment, shrugged and turned back to them. “I’m going to stay and fight. To hell with it. I’ve had enough of running!”
“You always were a bloody fool, Tristan!”
“But not a coward!”
“Of course you are. You’ve run away from those bastards every time, just like the rest of us. It’s common sense. They’re stronger than us!”
“But we have right on our side!”
“We have what?” Palomides, walking again, paused.
“Right!”
“What the hell are you talking about? Have Nyneve’s stories addled your brain?”
Tristan tried to put his thoughts into words, a feat made more difficult by the intervening distance. “There’s a better way to handle this!” he shouted. “There’s a better way to do everything. We shouldn’t run like scared animals. We should stand and defend our land. The Irish have no business here. We’ll show them what the men of Mara Zion are made of! We’ll send them scuttling home, licking their wounds like the dogs they are!”
“What’s that?” Palomides cupped a hand to his ear. “I can’t hear you, Tristan. You’ll have to speak up!”
But a few of the villagers were hesitating. The Irish boat had reached the first of the breakers. The warriors were laying down their oars and picking up swords, preparing to surf in. Nyneve still sat on her rock, alone, beautiful and unprotected apart from the solitary figure of Tristan, who now faced the enemy with sword at the ready.
Fang, the Gnome (Song of Earth) Page 10
