With a yell of fright, Fang threw himself aside.
The Sharan passed rapidly through the space he had vacated and into the mushroom ring.
Then she disappeared utterly. The sound of her hooves was cut off as though a door had closed.
The gnomes crept out of hiding and stood staring at the empty ring.
“Oh, my,” whispered Trish. “Oh my-oh-my! Where did she go?”
“Nowhere. One minute she was there; the next … poof!”
“Poof?”
“She just disappeared. She must have gone into the umbra, like Nyneve does.”
“Oh, my!”
There was a frightened silence while they considered the implications, then Bison tried to put the alarming new situation into words.
“That, um.” He stared around at the others, seeking support for what he was about to say. “That—”
“That takes away the whole reason for our existence!” said the Miggot, going straight to the heart of the matter. “We can’t create new life any more. We’re useless parasites!”
“Oh, no!” quavered old Crotchet, who had been a useless parasite for the past two hundred years.
“Surely there are other reasons for gnomedom,” said Lady Duck.
“None!” snapped the Miggot.
“What about being kind and good, and living in accord with the forest and its creatures, and all that stuff?” suggested Trish. “Can’t we still do that?”
“Not very productive, is it?” said the Miggot sarcastically. “No. Our sole purpose is to create life where it is needed, to fit into the various ecological niches of our world. That is why the Sharan was entrusted to us. And we have betrayed that trust!”
For some reason all eyes turned to Fang, standing forlorn beside the ring.
“Fang didn’t betray the trust,” boomed King Bison.
“Of course not!” came a hasty chorus.
“Anybody would have dodged, if they’d seen a brute like that headed for him.”
“It’s instinctive,” said the Miggot. “It’s a survival mechanism.”
“Of course it is. Of course it is.” They all avoided looking at Fang, while the enormity of his cowardice built up in their minds. “Of course it is,” somebody said, with very little conviction.
The gathering broke up very soon afterward. There seemed to be nothing more to say. Because of Fang, the gnomes had become mere drones, of little use to the forest or to themselves.
Fang was the last to leave. At least, he thought, the Gooligog hadn’t witnessed his failure.
Neither had the Princess of the Willow Tree. But they would both hear about his craven behavior soon enough.
And he, Fang, would have to live with himself.
As he stumbled along with tears in his eyes, he tried to think about other, happier happentracks—and according to Nyneve there would be an infinite number of happentracks—where he had flung himself courageously at the legs of the Sharan and brought it crashing to the ground, and pinioned it until it calmed down. Yes, that might well have happened on a million happentracks or more.
But it hadn’t happened on this particular one.
A Meeting in the Hollow Log
During the next few days, Fang got to know the inside of his dwelling very well. Fortunately he kept a good supply of food on hand, and there were more edibles to be had within the immediate vicinity. So he did not need to venture far afield.
He couldn’t face the Mara Zion gnomes, not yet. He couldn’t face the way they would avoid the subject of the Sharan and talk rapidly and unnecessarily of unimportant matters. Although he was sure that his predicament came under the heading of Hayle and would be a taboo subject among larger gatherings, nevertheless the gnomes in twos and threes would be mulling over the situation endlessly.
They would be clarifying the matter in their own minds. And that was what bothered Fang most. They would be cobbling together an official version to commit to the Gooligog’s memory at the monthly memorizing meeting. And that would be that. The name of Fang would go down through history as a gnome who betrayed his species.
With a strangled sob, Fang dug into a breakfast of chanterelles fried in sunflower butter. What would the Princess think of him now? Any mild regard she may have felt toward him as a result of the daggertooth incident would have been killed stone dead. He followed the chanterelles with spice cake thickly spread with honey and raspberry jam. She would never speak to him again. She would probably never look at him again—and yet only a couple of days ago she had given him a glance from under her lashes that had tied his stomach into knots. He washed down the meal with a mug of beer. They would certainly strip him of the name of Fang.
He allowed his mind to dwell on the Princess for a few more cautious moments. Last night he’d had a strange and disturbing dream. It seemed he’d been sitting in a forest glade, enjoying the afternoon sun, basking in the glory of having saved the Sharan from jumping into the mushroom ring because he lived on a different happentrack.
Suddenly the Princess of the Willow Tree came running through the trees, her skirt flying up around her thighs, the way it did sometimes when she was dancing.
“This is your reward, Fang!” she cried, falling to the ground beside him. He kissed her just like Tristan had kissed Nyneve, tenderly and expectantly, as though something more were going to happen. Her lips were very soft and warm—and soon they were undressing each other, as though they wanted to.
The shame was too much even for a dream and it broke through Fang’s sleep so that he found himself staring at the ceiling and sweating with embarrassment, trying to dismiss the memory of the Princess’s thighs by creating imaginary monsters out of the pattern of roots that curled through the dark soil of his ceiling. It wasn’t the first time he’d had an unnatural dream about the Princess.
By the Great Grasshopper, if he ever let it slip, he would be banished from Mara Zion!
With trembling hands he poured himself another beer. Then he checked the scratches he’d made, like a condemned man, on the wall of his dwelling. Today was the fifth day since his disgrace, and today was the day his father held court.
There was a heavy knock on the door. He sprang to his feet guiltily. It seemed he did everything guiltily, these days. “Who’s that?” he called.
“Your father!” came the ominous reply.
“What do you want, Father?”
“For God’s sake, Willie, let me in,” said the Gooligog testily.
Fang opened the door. The Gooligog, wearing his memorizing robe, stalked in and stared around critically. “This place stinks, Willie. It looks as though otters have been playing here. You ought to pull yourself together and clean yourself up. I’ve known gnomes,” he went on, drawing on his prodigious memory, “who took to their beds after an unhappy event, and never looked after themselves, never washed, never combed their beards, never swept out their dwellings, and do you know what happened to them, Willie?”
“I combed my beard only a few minutes ago.”
“They died. Their life just slipped away from them. Their bleached bones were found lying on their beds, picked clean by their own housemice.”
“I don’t have a housemouse.”
“I do, and believe me, Willie, I watch that bastard every second. He sniffed at my leg a month ago, and I fetched him a kick that he’ll remember for a long time. You can’t be too careful with housemice. Sometimes I catch the swine watching me. Just watching. And waiting. So I make damned sure I keep myself clean,” he said, returning to the subject by a roundabout route, “and I don’t allow myself to become infected with despair.”
“Perhaps you have nothing to despair about, Father.”
The Gooligog uttered a short laugh. “Ha! I could tell you tales of despair that would make your cap molt. Many’s the time I’ve returned home sick to my stomach with the problems of gnomedom and the stink of the swamp and the slime and those fat white worms with the transparent skins, and I’ve sat down and felt
like weeping. Then I’ve had a damned good wash and felt better.”
“Have you ever thought of living somewhere else, father?”
“That’s the trouble with you youngsters, you always want it easy. We have no right to hog all the best spots in the forest. We are the gnomes. We are the world’s servants, and we live in accord with the creatures around us, be they never so humble. And by the Sword of Agni, the creatures in the swamp are about as humble as you can get.” He stared at Fang proudly.
“Why did you come, Father?”
“As an act of kindness. I plan to escort you to the gathering.”
“why?”
“It will go better for you if I am seen to be on your side.”
“But you’re not on my side, Father. And gnomedom has made up its mind, anyway. Nothing you can do or say will change anything. I’m to be branded a coward!”
“True,” admitted his father. “Although there are degrees of cowardice, from the person guilty of a slight error of judgment to an abject or craven coward.”
“Which am I, father?”
The Gooligog preserved a tactful silence.
“I see,” said Fang bitterly. “Doesn’t it occur to you that any other gnome in my position would have done the same as I did?”
“But no other gnome was in your position, Willie. You cannot pass the blame on. It was you, and you alone, who flung himself aside to save his skin at the cost of our heritage.”
“Is that what they’re saying?”
“More or less. And you can’t say it isn’t justified.”
“How do you know whether it’s justified or not? You weren’t even there, father! And as for saving skins, every gnome there flung himself aside long before I did. They bolted for the bush and left me standing fast!”
“Accusations will not help your cause, Willie. Come with me and face this like a gnome!”
“No!” said Fang. “I have nothing to say to anyone!”
“They might have something to say to you.,”
“I don’t want to hear it. I know it already. Go to your meeting, Father!”
So forceful was his tone that the Gooligog left without further comment, mounted his elderly rabbit and loped slowly to the hollow log.
The meeting was well attended. Any Mara Zion gnome who was anyone was there, and a large number who were not. They sat on the floor of the hollow log while the Gooligog in his ceremonial memorizing robe, sat on a stool at the solid end of the log.
“Silence for the Memorizer!” roared King Bison.
Conversation died away and eyes turned to the Gooligog. He stood, raising his robe on outstretched arms in a posture that, centuries later, would become associated with bloodsucking counts.
“Bring me your memories!” he intoned, and sat down again.
There was a long silence broken by isolated coughing.
Suddenly, nobody seemed to remember anything. It was as though the past month had never happened. Normally the Memorizer would be besieged at this point with gnomes anxious to commit events, major and minor, to history.
The gnomes looked at one another. Nudges and nods passed among some, while others became deeply interested in the contents of their knapsacks, rummaging about as though seeking forgotten delicacies.
Clubfoot, as ever insensitive to atmosphere, stood and made his way forward.
“I hear you, Clubfoot Trimble,” said the Gooligog. “State your memory for consideration.”
Clubfoot frowned, glancing over his shoulder in the direction of the Miggot. “Ten days ago,” he said, “the monthly rubber joe races were held, and I would like history to record that my joe, Forest Lass, was a clear winner!” Fumbling in his pocket he produced a small wooden box and flourished it before the crowd. “This is Forest Lass,” he announced.
The Gooligog stiffened with outrage. “I hardly think this topic is, of sufficient—”
“Clubfoot lies!” came a shout from the crowd. The Miggot stood there, pink with indignation. “The finals of the monthly races were won by my rubber joe, Strider, as every gnome here knows! Clubfoot is using the Memorizer as a medium for voicing his specious objection to the result!”
The Gooligog had intended to dismiss Clubfoot’s topic as trivial and unworthy, but the Miggot’s entry into the field changed matters. The Miggot was a gnome of substance. “Is that so?” said the Gooligog, narrowing his eyes and gazing from one gnome to the other. “What do you have to say about that, Clubfoot?”
“The Miggot’s entrant was not a rubber joe,” said Clubfoot sulkily.
“If it wasn’t a joe, what do you think it was?” snapped the Miggot, delving in his own pocket. “The Great Grasshopper?”
Clubfoot mumbled something.
“Speak up!” called the Gooligog.
“It was a new insect the Miggot created!” shouted Clubfoot defiantly, eyes darting from gnome to gnome in the audience, seeking support. A roar of surprised comment echoed from the log, scaring nearby animals. Arguments broke out among normally well-behaved gnomes and there were cries of astonishment. Never had there been such a scene at the monthly meeting.
Now it was the Miggot’s turn to be outraged. He pushed his way to the front of the audience and confronted Clubfoot, waving his own box. “Are you seriously suggesting that my rubber joe Strider is a child of the Sharan?”
Clubfoot licked his lips, backing away. “Well, I have to admit, the thought had occurred to me, Miggot. I expect it occurred to other people. I’m not the only one, Miggot. Really, I’m speaking on behalf of the whole of gnomedom.”
Now Lady Duck could be seen wading through the seated gnomes. “In all my days,” she shouted, “I’ve never heard a more trivial topic discussed before the Memorizer. Is this what the occasion has come to? Must we listen to a bunch of bickering fools?”
The Miggot leveled his gaze upon her. “Simply because females are not interested in joe-racing is no reason to refer to the topic as trivial, Lady Duck. The history of the joe race goes back hundreds of years. The benefits to the insect kingdom have been inestimable!” He fumbled his box open and produced a woodlouse, holding it up for the audience to see. “Strider here represents the pinnacle of his species. Far from being a product of the Sharan, he represents many generations of careful breeding.” Strider’s numerous legs commenced a mettlesome running motion. “Observe the coordination. My work on rubber joes is an important component of our overall duty to the world around us. There are more ways of performing that duty than you sometimes realize. I am now in the process,” he announced proudly, “of mating Strider to the previous month’s winner, Atalanta!”
“That doesn’t prove anything,” muttered Clubfoot. “And I don’t think that kind of talk is suitable for an important gathering like this, Miggot.”
“Show us Forest Lass,” said the Miggot with an unpleasant smile, “and let the gnomes judge which is the superior beast.”
Clubfoot shot him a glance of dislike, opened his box and produced a woodlouse. It was immediately apparent to the audience that this was by no means so sprightly a rubber joe as Strider. It lay inert in the palm of Clubfoot’s hand, and although he prodded it on the posterior—this normally produced a burst of speed from the most sluggish joe—it remained motionless. Clubfoot turned it over. Its legs were stiffly raised.
It was dead.
“You see?” exclaimed the Miggot in triumph. “What did I tell you?”
“Oh, my,” said Clubfoot sadly.
“Do I take it,” asked the Gooligog, “that the subject is closed? Can I now get on with the business of memorizing serious items?”
“Throw it away, Clubfoot!” came Trish’s cry. “Just get rid of it. It always was an ugly brute!”
“You can memorize the lopster!” came another cry. It was Pong, staring belligerently in the direction of the Miggot as he spoke.
The Miggot swung round incredulously. He’d beaten off one attack only to find reinforcements assaulting his rear. “There is no lopster!”
he snarled.
“Silence!” shouted the Gooligog.
But the arguments dragged on, and when the lopster had been disposed of, the matter of the encroaching umbra came up again. It seemed to the Gooligog that the gnomes intended to discuss everything under the sun except the lost Sharan, the cowardice issue, and his son Fang. Finally he rose to his feet in exasperation, having heard nothing worth committing to memory in the entire morning.
“Time for lunch!” he shouted viciously.
There was an audible exhalation of relief in the hollow log. Suddenly the gnomes were smiling and pulling packages of food from their knapsacks. Happy conversations broke out, plans were made for parties that evening. The Gooligog and the Miggot were left alone, regarding each other warily.
“So,” said the Miggot.
“A morning wasted, Miggot.”
“A morning without embarrassment for gnomedom.”
“A morning without truth. The truth does not embarrass me.”
“You are alone in that,” said the Miggot. “We should leave the matter of the Sharan for another meeting. This is not the time.”
“Not the time? This is exactly the time. The most terrible event gnomedom has experienced happened during the last month, and you don’t want it memorized? I thought you were a responsible gnome, Miggot. Where is the truth in our history if we consciously omit such important events?”
“Nobody wants to be responsible for giving you the story, Gooligog,” said the Miggot flatly. “And you weren’t there yourself when the Sharan disappeared, so officially you know nothing. Close the meeting now, Gooligog. I have more important things to do than sit around here all day listening to you rambling on.”
The Gooligog flushed an unhealthy crimson. “This is an outrage! Why won’t they talk?”
The Miggot gave a thin smile. “Partly Hayle—there are certain distressing elements in the story. And partly that nobody wants us to go down in history as the generation that lost the Sharan. Nobody except you, that is.” And the glare that the Miggot shot the Gooligog was one of the most piercing ever seen in gnomedom. If the Miggot’s glare had missed its target—so the story went—it would have bored a hole through the wall of the hollow log.
Fang, the Gnome (Song of Earth) Page 13
