Fang, the Gnome (Song of Earth)

by Coney, Michael G.

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” Torre muttered in exasperation, and began to hurry back to the beach, drawing his sword. Little Governayle followed, stumbling in his haste. Others began to leave the column, uncertainly at first, then becoming infected with the spirit of the moment. Yelling, they broke into a run for the beach, brandishing their weapons. A few had short swords, but most carried hunting knives.

  The Irish watched in amazement. The surf had caught them now, and they were riding the crest of a wave toward the beach. There could be no turning back. A few seconds ago the thought of turning back would not have occurred to them. But now a score of Cornish were charging, uttering barbarous cries. In their surprise, a few Irish jumped from their craft too soon and immediately began to flounder up to their necks in surf, weighed down by their armor.

  Tristan spotted this and ran forward.

  “Take them before they reach dry land!” he shouted. Up to his waist in water, he thrust with his sword as the boat skimmed toward him, and impaled the Irishman in the prow. The sword was jerked from his grasp. He seized the boat’s bow and tried to turn it.

  Torre arrived, and others. As the Irish boat slewed sideways to the waves, the crew began to jump. The men of Mara Zion, unencumbered by armor, slashed at them furiously, refusing them access to the beach.

  A wave caught the boat and it capsized, spilling out the remaining occupants. The villagers fell upon them, stabbing and hacking, yelling, insane with blood-lust, venting the frustrations of the last six years. The Irish began to scream and tried to escape by wading into deeper water, but their half-submerged craft herded them forward into the Mara Zion blades.

  “Mercy!” they cried, covering their heads.

  “Kill them!” roared Palomides, arriving a little late but waving his sword with wild enthusiasm. “Kill every last one of the bastards!”

  “No!” shouted Tristan. “Back off, men! They’re beaten!”

  “All the more reason to kill!” Palomides swung at a cringing Irishman, raising a spurt of blood from the man’s shoulder.

  “I said back off!” Tristan waded through the surf and threw himself at Palomides. The waves closed over them as they fell. The men of Mara Zion drew back, watching the Irish warily. Tristan stood, towing Palomides to dry land. Soon the villagers were arrayed in a line on the sand, weapons at the ready, while the Irish dragged themselves from the sea.

  They were a pathetic sight. Most of them clutched at wounds and all had dropped their weapons. Two dead bodies rolled in the surf. The Irish were defeated, and all the stuffing had been knocked out of them. Gone were the invincible aggressors of past years. They huddled in a whimpering group, eyeing the weapons of Mara Zion fearfully.

  And among them was the woman.

  The minstrels who sing the Song of Earth tell of her proud stance and the way she stared into the eyes of the Cornishmen with contempt, challenging them, daring them to lay their rough hands on her. But legends are made for good listening, and they bend the facts into a suitable shape for the listener’s ear. In fact the woman knelt on the sand with bowed head. The breath had been knocked out of her by a Mara Zion knee during the skirmish.

  Tristan helped her to her feet. “Who are you?” he asked.

  “I’m the king’s d-daughter.” Her teeth were chattering.

  “The Irish king?”

  “Of course.”

  “What’s your name?”

  She looked at him, and he felt an unaccountable sensation in his stomach. It reminded him of an occasion he’d been kicked by a horse. “Iseult,” she said.

  “What are you doing here?” Now he felt a sudden anger. “Don’t you have more sense than to come on raiding parties?”

  One of the Irishmen spoke. “This is no raiding party. We came to collect legal tribute.”

  “We see it differently. We already pay fealty to Baron Menheniot. And who are you, anyway?”

  “My name’s Marhaus.”

  “Are you in charge of this rabble?”

  “This party, yes.”

  “Why the hell did you bring this woman along?”

  A wry grin appeared on Marhaus’s lips. “She’s the king’s daughter, didn’t you hear? Just try to stop her doing something she wants to do.”

  “How long are we going to stand here talking?” Palomides wanted to know. “Let’s take them back to the village and have some sport with them.”

  Tristan said, “No. Things are going to be different from now on. We’ve beaten them, so now we let them go. We’ve made our point.”

  “Made our point?” Palomides’s voice was shrill with outrage. “What bloody point have we made? That we’re a bunch of pansies, ripe to be picked by any raider who sets foot on the beach? The only other point I see is that you’ve been listening to too many of Nyneve’s stories!”

  “Perhaps I have. But isn’t it more satisfying this way? They’re disgraced. They’ll take the news back to Ireland, if they have the guts. And they’ll tell the Irish that Mara Zion is a force to be reckoned with. The Irish will never find that out, if we don’t let them go.”

  “And perhaps they’ll send several boats back to avenge their dead.”

  “You could have a point,” admitted Tristan after a thoughtful pause. He hesitated, eyeing the prisoners. Iseult met his gaze and again he felt that strange thrill. Iseult wore a pale green robe that stuck to her, outlining her body. There was nothing to stop him from keeping her … except Nyneve’s oddly convincing new ideas. He glanced at Nyneve guiltily and she looked back at him without expression.

  Marhaus spoke, interrupting his deliberations. “I’ll fight you,” he said.

  “You already have.”

  “No—just you and I, man to man. If I win, you let us go and I’ll undertake to make sure the Irish don’t raid Mara Zion again. And if you win, you can do what you like with us.”

  Marhaus was heavily built, but Tristan, measuring him up, felt confident. “I’ll agree to that,” he said.

  “What!” There was a cry of horror from Palomides. “We’ve already beaten them, Tristan! Why fight again? We have the weapons and the advantage. Why throw it all away?”

  “Lend him your sword, Ned.”

  “Like hell. Let him find his own sword in the sea!”

  Tristan grinned. “You heard him, Marhaus. It’s the least you can do. And take that armor off!”

  So Marhaus stripped down to his underclothes, waded into the surf and retrieved a sword. Then he faced Tristan. The Irish and the Cornish gathered around them in a large circle. Nyneve watched from her rock. She would be sorry if Tristan were seriously hurt, but there were broader issues, as Avalona had pointed out. The notion of chivalry must be put across.

  And in spite of the witch’s influence, Nyneve was still basically a young girl of her time. A sword fight was exciting.

  Marhaus swung, a wide two-handed sweep aimed at Tristan’s legs that the Cornishman evaded easily, jumping back. Then Tristan moved in while Marhaus was still off-balance and lunged for the heart. Marhaus jerked aside. A thin trickle of blood seeped from his ribs. The Mara Zion people cheered.

  Tristan was accounted a skilled swordsman by Cornish standards. He had been taught at an early age as a part of his general education, and he was more than a match for the average man. He used a lighter sword than most, for speed in one-handed thrusts. He was strong and wiry with a good sense of balance. Marhaus swung again, a chopping blow that would have split Tristan’s skull if he had not swayed aside. As the Irishman’s sword thudded into the sand, Tristan opened up another cut, this time on Marhaus’s right shoulder. Blood spurted and Marhaus winced.

  The bout continued in this way for a few minutes, while Marhaus grew visibly more tired and his swings more wild. The Irish were very quiet now. Marhaus was losing. Tristan drove him down the beach until the waves lapped at his ankles. Grunting with exertion, Marhaus summoned up his strength for a final mighty blow. Tristan saw it coming, but this time he stepped forward instead of back. He r
aised his sword to parry the swing, intent on getting to close quarters where Marhaus would be at an even greater disadvantage with his heavy sword. Then the battle would be finished, quickly and decisively.

  The swords clashed and the air rang.

  Tristan’s sword broke off short.

  Amazed at his luck, Marhaus advanced from the water, the point of his sword held at Tristan’s throat. Tristan backed away. His foot dropped into a depression in the sand and he fell. Marhaus stood over him, sword ready.

  “I yield,” said Tristan.

  “So I see,” said Marhaus. “But it won’t help you.” He raised his sword.

  “If you kill him we’ll kill the whole bloody lot of you!” shouted Torre.

  Marhaus hesitated, then sheathed his sword and stepped back. The Irish gathered around, slapping him on the back. The Cornish people scowled, muttering. Tristan got to his feet, dusting off the sand. Then, to the amazement of the Cornish, he pushed his way into the Irish group and joined in the congratulations. “Go back to your land in peace,” he said. “May God be with you.”

  Marhaus blinked in surprise, then shook Tristan’s proffered hand. “You’re a good loser, Tristan,” he said. “That’s an unusual trait in a Cornishman. I’ll keep my side of the bargain. You won’t see us in Mara Zion again.”

  Tristan found himself staring at Iseult. “You’re welcome to come as guests,” he said.

  “That’s as may be.” Marhaus led his men into the water and they righted their craft. The villagers began to straggle up the forest path, chattering excitedly. Although Tristan had lost his personal fight, the main point was the the Irish had been defeated and had undertaken not to raid Mara Zion in future.

  “But the proof of the pudding is in the eating,” observed Palomides.

  “I don’t think they’ll be back,” said Torre. “Tristan did the right thing, letting them go. I have a good feeling about all this. These principles Nyneve keeps talking about—they could work. Just imagine how much better life would be, if we could develop a common code of behavior so that we know what to expect from strangers we meet in the forest. Men will always fight. That’s their nature. But we don’t have to fight to the death. We’ve all seen wolves fighting, but they never kill one another. The beaten wolf will yield, exposing his throat, just as Tristan did. Then the winner will turn aside, having gained enough.”

  “Marhaus would have killed Tristan if you hadn’t threatened them all,” said Palomides skeptically.

  “Today he would. But would he tomorrow? I don’t think so. Marhaus learned something from Tristan’s actions, just as we’ve learned from Nyneve’s stories. Marhaus has something to think about, and an example to follow.”

  And Torre’s view was shared by many, as the villagers walked home. Nyneve’s code of behavior had been tested in real life, and had worked. The immediate satisfaction of torturing and killing the Irish had been exchanged for the long-term benefits of peace, and the villagers believed, deep down, that the exchange had been a good one. A hard one to make, maybe—and some of the women in particular would have dearly loved to see the color of Irish entrails—but a beneficial one. The villagers started to sing as the forest closed around them.

  “And our next move,” shouted Ned Palomides recklessly, “will be to throw off the yoke of Baron Menheniot!”

  “Steady …” murmured Torre. “Don’t say anything you might regret later, Ned. The baron has his supporters, even among us.”

  Tristan remained on the beach, watching the boat as it disappeared round the headland. At last he turned and began to walk slowly home.

  “I expect you’ll see her again,” said Nyneve.

  “I could have kept her.”

  “She isn’t yours to keep.”

  It was almost dark, and the night creatures were beginning to make their special sounds. “I wouldn’t have thought that way a few weeks ago,” said Tristan.

  “But you do believe me now, don’t you?”

  “I believe you. The new way is right.”

  Who knows what is in the minds of the gods? Nyneve had been touched by Avalona, and now was not always her own woman. She was not always accountable for her own actions, which might sometimes be dictated by the needs of an ifalong too great and complex for her tiny human understanding.

  And then again, who knows what is in the mind of a woman? Nyneve had seen a stirring battle on the beach and had been moved by it, and by the heroism of the young man who stood before her. She had known him for many years and had been close to him in other ways. She liked him and respected him, and he knew she felt the same. And it was evening, and the air was warm. And they were alone.

  Nyneve said, “I could make you forget her, just for a little while.”

  He stopped walking, astonished. The recently mysterious, somewhat aloof Nyneve was gone, and in her place stood a pretty girl in the forest twilight. “What?”

  She took his hand. “I could make you forget her.”

  “Please do that,” said Tristan.

  From the umbra, two gnomes watched the outcome with fascination and awe.

  The Disgrace of Fang

  What a human being saw as romantic, beautiful and fun, a gnome saw as a disgusting necessity. To the gnomes, sex was merely a means of propagating the race, to be dealt with as quickly and painlessly as possible, and then put out of mind. Living together was a thing of mutual affection and companionship, but no more.

  Fang and Pong had watched the battle on the beach and been somewhat reassured by the peaceful outcome.

  “They have Nyneve to thank for that,” said Pong. “She has the power to pacify giants.”

  Fang had other concerns. “When you see metal meeting metal in the umbra, it’s easy to imagine the clang, right, Pong? The mind can play tricks.”

  Pong regarded his friend. “I thought I heard it, too. And that’s the first time I’ve ever heard a sound from the umbra.”

  “But there’s no point in telling anyone. We could have imagined it. We’d be the laughingstock of gnomedom.”

  “They think I’m a little strange, anyway,” said Pong sadly. “You’re the only one who ever comes to see me, Fang. Except when they want some bladderwrack for their cooking pots.”

  Gloomily the two gnomes walked to a convenient knoll from which they could watch Tristan and Nyneve. There was a morbid fascination about the sight of the two giants standing still and looking at each other.

  Fang knew what would happen next. The same thing always happened when a male and a female giant were alone. They began to stroke each other, as though they were petting domestic cats. Their movements became jerky. And then—sure enough—they began to tear their clothes off. They flung themselves to the ground and began to pound away at each other, faces distorted with pain.

  Faint sounds of strife were borne to the gnomes on the knoll.

  “Did you hear that?” whispered Pong.

  “I heard it.” A creeping dread took hold of Fang. He watched the spectacle as though hypnotized. After a while the male giant bellowed. Then the pair relaxed and lay still, clinging together in mutual sorrow. The sound of harsh breathing was like a gale through the forest. It’s just as though they’re right here on our happentrack, thought Fang.

  But he was a resilient gnome, and after a while curiosity overcame his fear. Treading softly, he approached the mourning giants.

  But were they mourning? Nyneve was smiling. And the actions that followed—the mutual tenderness, as they kept touching each other and murmuring—could have been interpreted as shared joy rather than sympathy. And then Fang heard their voices. …

  “Why did we do that?” Tristan asked quietly.

  “Because we’re human.”

  “But I’m in love with someone else.”

  “So am I.” Nyneve flushed, and Fang thought she’d never looked more beautiful.

  “Who?” Tristan was frowning, moving away from her. “Not that bastard Palomides?”

  She laughed softly
. “Not Ned.”

  “Then who? Is he from the village?”

  “He’s not from anywhere around here.”

  “Do I know him?”

  “In a manner of speaking. You know of him, but you’ve never met him and you never will.”

  Tristan was silent for a while, then he said, “I hope he’s worthy of you.”

  She’d rolled onto her back and was chewing on a blade of grass, looking at the stars through the trees. “I’m the unworthy one,” she said at last.

  Tristan leaned over and kissed her. Fang, suspecting they were about to start copulating again, crept back to the knoll. He was deeply concerned. The voices of the giants had been quite distinct, and at one point he’d thought Nyneve had actually seen him. Her eyes had wandered in his direction for a moment, seeming to focus on him. “I think the umbra’s beginning to work both ways,” he told Pong. “We’re going to have to tell the others about this, whether they believe us or not. I could hear every word the giants were saying. And … And I think Nyneve saw me.”

  “Saw you?” Pong’s eyes widened and his fishy smell seemed to intensify. “Saw you?” he squeaked, glancing at the couple who had got to their feet and were now walking up the path to the village, hand in hand.

  “It makes sense. We can see them. And Nyneve told me some giants believe we exist, but others laugh at them, luckily for us. They call us piskies. They see us when we’re near the mushroom rings.”

  Pong said, “I’m going home. Even the lopster is better than this.” He regarded Fang speculatively. “You can stay the night if you like, Fang. Then in the morning we’ll both go and talk to the Miggot.”

  Fang underwent a brief mental struggle, weighing the perils of the night forest against the stink of Pong’s cave. The cave won. “That sounds like a good idea, Pong,” he said. “Thanks.”

  It was not a restful night for Fang. Pong insisted on preparing a slimy supper of boiled seaweed and forcing a bowl of it into his guest. When Fang asked for a mug of beer to wash it down, it emerged that Pong had no beer.

  “I don’t believe in it,” he said.