Fang, the Gnome (Song of Earth)

by Coney, Michael G.

  Nyneve opened her eyes. “Let’s stop the game for a moment,” she said. “That was beautiful. I want to hold it for a while.”

  “You will notice, Merlin,” said Avalona, “that he did not miss a stroke and fall into the bottom of the boat. There are a lot of irrelevancies in real life that have no effect whatever on the ifalong. A legend filters them out and concentrates only on the essentials.”

  “This is young Arthur in our story,” Merlin pointed out. “We’re not visualizing that lout Tristan. Did I ever tell you he kicked me in the shins when he was a kid and I caught him stealing our apples?”

  “In the ifalong,” said Avalona, “people will confuse Tristan with Arthur to such an extent that they will become almost indistinguishable from each other.”

  “Oh, no!” cried Nyneve. “They’re completely different people. Tristan is just a villager—very nice, but only a man. Arthur, now,” and her eyes were glowing in the firelight, “Arthur is like a god. Arthur will be whatever we want him to be. He is perfect. Let’s carry on with the game now, shall we?”

  “Arthur has no character,” said Merlin.

  “Character is just an excuse for lust and greed and all that stuff,” snapped Nyneve. “I hope Arthur is above that.”

  “If he is, then he’s just a stooge for the real characters around him,” retorted Merlin.

  “I believe it’s possible for a man to be pure and courageous and honorable without being boring.”

  “Oh, there’s nothing pure about Arthur,” said Merlin with a snigger. “He slept with his aunt.”

  “He what? He certainly did not!” Nyneve glared from Merlin’s grinning face to Nyneve’s impassive one. “How can you say a thing like that?”

  “He didn’t know she was his aunt, of course,” Merlin explained. “He was under a spell at the time. You see, while you were away, Avalona and I had a little game. And somehow—I can’t think how it happened, except that maybe the game was getting a bit dull—this ghastly witch appeared: Morgan le Fay. She was Arthur’s sister, actually, but she’d gone wrong—you know how girls can. Anyway, she arranged for Arthur’s aunt, Margawse, to visit Caerleon, where Arthur was staying. Arthur and Margawse … fell in love, shall we say? It was very touching.”

  “It’s disgusting! How could you do that while I was away? Arthur’s spoiled now!” She appealed to Avalona. “Isn’t that so?”

  “No man is perfect,” said the witch. “Only I am.”

  “We’re going to call the bastard Mordred,” added Merlin.

  “They’re going to have a child?”

  “Well, of course, nobody will know who Mordred’s father is. And then at the end of the game we can have a dramatic revelation. First, though, it’s time for some battles and a bit of rape and pillage.” He rubbed his hands.

  “I’m having nothing to do with it,” said Nyneve. “We were building a good world, the kind of place our own world ought to be but isn’t, and I was telling the villagers about it and everyone was enjoying themselves. Well, now you’ve made it dirty. I didn’t mind the fighting because it had a purpose. But to make Arthur sleep with his aunt changes the whole point of the game, and I don’t want any part of it!” Furious, she jumped to her feet and made for the door.

  “Sit down,” said Avalona.

  “No!” Nyneve jerked the door open, rushed outside and slammed it shut behind her, expecting at any moment to feel the witch’s powers working on her. But nothing happened.

  Inside, Avalona said, “We will marry Arthur to a suitable and wholesome woman, Merlin. Nyneve is too young and idealistic to accept your kind of plotting.”

  Nyneve ran across the clearing and into the forest. She felt as though Arthur had betrayed her. How could he sleep with some old aunt? Surely all the love she’d poured into the making of him would have shaped his character better than that. She sat on a stump, her face in her hands. Damn Merlin! How could he do that to her? First he’d spoiled Igraine, and now this! He was just a dirty old man!

  And into her mind, the thought crept so clearly that it might have been a voice. It’s only a game.

  Go away, Avalona! she thought furiously.

  We just sat in a group and dreamed it all up.

  Games can be very real, Nyneve thought back.

  Look at this.

  And there was Arthur in her mind, tall and handsome in the very center of a battle, unconquerable, Excalibur flashing in his hand. …

  “Oh, give me a few minutes peace!” Nyneve cried aloud.

  The image faded and she sat thinking about it all. After a while she became a little ashamed of herself. Avalona was right; it was only a game. She was ridiculously close to being in love with an imaginary man. Real people were all around her, and there was real work to be done.

  Reality made itself felt at that very moment, in fact. Something tapped at her leg. She looked down. A tiny man stood there, beating at her with his fists.

  “Fang!” she exclaimed in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m trapped in your world! I don’t know how to get back to gnomedom! I’ve tried standing in the mushroom ring but it doesn’t work, so I came to find you. I must get back quickly to warn people—the umbra’s coming closer! Will you help me, Nyneve? Will you?” The distress on his little face was almost comical.

  “Of course I will. Come on.” She picked him up and set off briskly down the dark forest path. The night birds were about and the undergrowth was full of secret rustlings. Nyneve was not frightened; some of Avalona’s sublime confidence had rubbed off on her. Most of the forest creatures avoided humans, and wolf attacks only occurred when food was scarce.

  “Oh!” She stumbled, nearly dropping Fang as she trod on one forest creature that had not avoided her. She fancied she heard a tiny squeak. But when she bent to examine the ground, there was nothing there. Whatever the animal was, it couldn’t have been badly hurt. Relieved, she walked on more carefully.

  “I … I saw you give Tristan the sword.” Fang had been trying to say this for some time, impelled by honesty. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  “That’s all right, Fang.”

  “Why did you give it to him?”

  “Avalona wanted me to. She’d planned it for a long time, but then she plans everything for a long time. I wouldn’t be surprised,” continued Nyneve in a moment of resentment, “if she’d been planning it for centuries. Even the smallest thing is planned. It gives me the creeps sometimes, the way it all works out.”

  “But why did Avalona want him to have such a beautiful thing?”

  “Oh, it’s a symbol or something. I don’t know. Avalona wants to build a new kind of society here in my world.” And her steps slowed as she thought of Arthur, tall and wonderful; and the earnest, well-intentioned Tristan who had stayed on the beach to defend her from the Irish. “Maybe some of her ideas are good,” she said.

  “You mean she wants to make your world more … peaceful? She wants giants to be less bloodthirsty?” he asked.

  Nyneve laughed ruefully. The poor, defenseless little fellow, she thought. “I’m afraid not, Fang. Quite the opposite, in a lot of ways. She wants the new society to define right and wrong, good and evil, very positively. And she wants people to be prepared to die for what is right. In some ways it’s rather like what the Church teaches, but instead of God smiting evil people—which He never does, unfortunately—men will do his smiting for him. There will be quite a lot of fighting, but all in a good cause.”

  “I don’t see how a good cause justifies fighting. Why not simply breed the evil out of your people? That’s what we gnomes would do.”

  “I don’t think we know how to. And if we did, a lot of people would think that was evil, too. And anyway, Avalona wouldn’t go for it. Don’t worry about it, Fang. You’ll be safe enough in gnomedom.”

  “Nyneve, I saw the Princess of the Willow Tree today. Right there, in the umbra of gnomedom. Any passing giant might have seen her, if he’d been around.” A quick ange
r took him at the thought of a giant seeing his Princess undressed. “The dirty bugger. But this means the giants will soon know all about us, and it means the umbra is coming closer. We won’t be safe in gnomedom. I think gnomedom and giantdom are going to be the same place, one day very soon! What are we going to do, Nyneve?”

  “I don’t know, Fang,” she confessed unhappily.

  “Are they going to be the same place?”

  To hell with Avalona, she thought. These little people should be warned. “It’s possible. It’s always better to prepare for the worst.”

  “But how can we prepare?”

  “I don’t know. Avalona once said something about gnomes arriving on Earth, as though you hadn’t always been here. Well, if you arrived somehow, maybe it would be possible for you to go back to your original home by the same route.”

  “But that must be thousands of years ago. I don’t know how we got here. Nobody ever talks about it. We’re just here, and that’s all there is to it.”

  “You told me you could remember everything.”

  “The Gooligog can. But you know what he’s like. And anyway, I can’t see people wanting to leave gnomedom.”

  “They may have to, Fang.”

  He didn’t reply, and they were silent for the rest of the walk. Soon Nyneve stopped in a familiar clearing. “I’ve already tried getting home this way,” said Fang.

  “Don’t talk. I have to concentrate.”

  Then there was a tingling through Fang’s body, and after a moment Nyneve said, “We’re here,” and she put him down on the ground.

  “This is gnomedom?” It looked just the same as the giant’s world: the clearing, the moons above. Somehow it should have felt safer.

  “You’re home, Fang,” she said. “And now I must get back home, too.” She stood still for a moment, then suddenly she was gone, and Fang was alone.

  He looked around, sniffed the air, detected a subtle difference and decided he was indeed home.

  He hurried along the path, toward the hollow log. As he walked, he prepared his speech. He would tell the gnomes of his adventures, glossing over his failure to recover the Sharan; then, when they were suitably prepared, he would warn them that their world was no longer secret. He wouldn’t mention the disgraceful bathing episode, of course. He’d just tell them he’d seen the Princess out walking; and if he could see her, so could the giants. And if the umbra was getting so thin, the next thing would be that giants and gnomes could touch one another.

  And then it would be the skewer, and the open fire.

  He could see the hollow log through the trees, and the murmur of gnomish voices came to his ears. A dozen or more gnomes were gathered, which meant that the women had had their way tonight, and trade was poor at the Disgusting. It seemed a long time since he’d seen them all, and to his shame he felt a tear run down his cheek as he entered. The Princess wasn’t there, which was a pity. He’d been looking forward to the expression of admiration his story would bring to her pretty face.

  Somebody said, “It’s Fang.” There was an embarrassed outbreak of coughing and conversation died away, while each gnome assured himself that Fang was not responsible for the loss of the Sharan.

  Fang sat down among them. “It’s good to see you all again,” he said.

  “It doesn’t do for a gnome to sit at home all alone, brooding,” said Clubfoot Trimble with characteristic lack of tact.

  “I didn’t mean that,” said Fang, irritated. “I mean it’s good to see you all after my great adventure, from which I was lucky to escape with my life.”

  “My cousin Hal was always having great adventures,” said the Miggot. “The bloody fool.”

  “Have a drink,” said Clubfoot, passing him a mug. “Tell us the story of your adventures, Fang. Don’t mind the Miggot. He’s only jealous.”

  “Where’s Trish?” asked Fang. “And King Bison and Lady Duck?”

  “They’ll be here in a moment,” said Clubfoot, understanding that Fang wanted the largest possible audience. “Lady Duck went to get Bison out of the Disgusting. I expect Trish is on her way, too.”

  “And … and the Princess?”

  “Oh, her. She’s hardly ever around these days, Fang. I don’t suppose she’ll come. Why don’t you start now, and the others can pick it up when they arrive.”

  “All right.” Fang cleared his throat, making sure he had their attention, and began, “Fellow gnomes, I have a tale of wonder to tell you. I have been—”

  “Clubfoot! Clubfoot! Oh, dear, Clubfoot!”

  King Bison scurried into the log, panting and wild-eyed, Lady Duck a few paces behind.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s … It’s …” Bison gazed around the gathering, tears on his cheeks. “It’s Trish!” he managed to say.

  Clubfoot sprang up in alarm. “What do you mean, it’s Trish? Is she hurt?”

  “Oh, she’s hurt, Clubfoot.” King Bison was crying openly, now.

  “How badly?”

  “Very badly. Awfully badly, Clubfoot.” Bison was pawing at Clubfoot’s clothing, staring into his face, willing Clubfoot to excuse him from explaining further.

  “What do you mean, awfully badly?” asked Clubfoot, clutching Bison back.

  “Oh, Clubfoot, you’d better come and see. Or maybe you shouldn’t. Oh, Clubfoot!”

  The Miggot took over. Seizing King Bison by the arm, he snapped, “You’d better take us there, right now!”

  Led by the Miggot, who was supporting the weeping Bison, they hurried into the forest.

  Unhappy Days in Enomedom

  Trish lay face down on the ground, motionless. The gnomes gathered around in silence while Clubfoot knelt beside her, murmured to her, then gently turned her over. In the light from the Miggot’s torch, they could see that Trish’s eyes were open.

  “She’s dead, Trimble,” said the Miggot harshly. There was a muffled sob from somewhere.

  “But there’s no blood.” Clubfoot looked up at them, face twisted in anguish. “How could she be dead?”

  “Perhaps she just died. People do.” Other torches joined the Miggot’s and the scene became brightly illuminated. The Miggot said, “She’s a damned funny shape.”

  “She was always overweight, you know that!” cried Clubfoot, and there was an outraged muttering at the Miggot’s insensitivity.

  The Miggot said, “I mean she looks squashed.”

  “Squashed?”

  “Kind of spread out. As though something fell on her.”

  They looked at the body; and yes, Trish did look squashed. Here and there her skin was blue and had burst out of the seams of her clothes. A groan of horror arose.

  “But there’s no fallen tree or anything anywhere,” said King Bison.

  “Then something must have sat on her. A monster who doesn’t know his own weight.” Clubfoot gazed around at their apprehensive faces.

  “Morble,” somebody said.

  There was a grief-stricken silence as the gnomes visualized the appalling fate of Trish, too fat and slow-moving to get out of the way, with the frightful immensity of Morble looming over her, descending on her.

  “You’ll have to speak to Nyneve, Miggot,” said King Bison. “This is the first time Morble’s done anything like this, and now he may have developed a taste for it. He always was a vicious-looking brute.”

  “How can you develop a taste for sitting on people, Bison, you fool? It’s eating people you develop a taste for.” Then the significance of his own words dawned on the Miggot and he glanced at the blackness of the forest. “We’re in a vulnerable position, standing here.”

  “You’re saying he may come back?”

  “It would be perfectly natural for the brute, having made his kill, to return in due course to feast on the remains.”

  “So then he would develop a taste for gnome,” said Bison triumphantly, having been smarting since the Miggot called him a fool. “It all comes to the same thing.”

  Spector, who up to now
had preserved a thoughtful silence, spoke up. “It’s more likely Morble would have eaten his victim at the time of the killing. Why leave it and then come back? Why not eat it at the time, while the craze for blood is still on him?”

  “Perhaps he likes his meat well aged,” suggested the Miggot.

  “Shut up, you callous swine!” yelled Elmera. “Have you no feeling for the bereaved?”

  The bereaved, who had been kneeling beside the body, fortunately oblivious to the conversation, looked up. “Speak to Nyneve, Miggot,” he said brokenly. “For all our sakes.”

  “Yes, speak to Nyneve, Miggot!” cried the gnomes, glad to have a visible target for their outrage. “Do it now!” shouted old Crotchet, who had just arrived and was not sure what all the fuss was about. “Do it right now, Miggot!”

  “Why me?” the Miggot shouted back, cornered. “Why me? Why not Bison? He’s supposed to be our leader!” The Miggot was not sure which he disliked the most: the ferocious Morble, or the overblown girl-giant Nyneve, with the enormous breasts.

  But King Bison had collapsed under a tree, face buried in his hands. “It’s all too much,” he mumbled. “I can’t take the pressure.”

  “Bison’s a spent force,” said Elmera. “You speak to Nyneve, Miggot, or it’ll be the worse for you!”

  “I’ll speak to Nyneve,” Fang offered.

  “You?” The gnomes looked at him doubtfully. The image of Fang flinging himself cravenly to the ground in the face of the charging Sharan, thus betraying the trust, was strong in their minds. But then, hadn’t there been something creditable about Fang and the daggertooth earlier on? Gnomes had so much to remember that there was a tendency to concentrate on the most recent events.

  “I spent some time with her today,” said Fang. “I visited the umbra.”

  The Gooligog, who had arrived late, possessed of a gnomish sixth sense that something was afoot, said, “A likely story.”