Fang, the Gnome (Song of Earth)

by Coney, Michael G.

  “I saw many wonderful things.” Fang, after this strong start, lapsed into silence as he remembered the naked Princess.

  “Maybe tonight isn’t the best time to tell us about them,” said Spector hastily. “If you don’t mind me saying so, Fang. Save the story of your travels for another night.”

  “It’s important,” said Fang stubbornly, but beginning to become discouraged. It certainly wasn’t the most suitable occasion to tell of his gloomy forebodings. Most likely—as so often happened to authors of gloomy forebodings—he would be shouted down and the impact would be lost.

  “I’m sure it is,” said Spector comfortingly. “I’m sure it is, Fang. Now just talk to Nyneve, will you? There’s a good fellow.”

  Fang was staring at the path through the trees, chasing an elusive memory. It slipped out of his mind and was gone. “I’ll look out for her,” he said. “I know how she gets into gnomedom.”

  “Why don’t you simply visit giantdom?” asked the Gooligog nastily. “You’ve done it once, so you say. Do it again!”.

  “I think that was just a temporary way through the umbra. Then it closed up, once the sword had gone.”

  “The sword?”

  “Forget it,” said Fang. “I’ll try.”

  The others nodded, watching Clubfoot who sat beside Trish, holding her cold hand, weeping silently. When you’ve lived with someone for a couple of centuries, it’s hard to let go.

  It so happened that Nyneve didn’t visit gnomedom for a month. Fang, after an abortive visit to the Excalibur dell, camped disconsolately beside the mushroom ring, waiting in vain. It was a month of exciting events in Mara Zion. Nyneve was caught up in them to such an extent that she hardly had time to give a thought to her little friends one world removed.

  Two days after Tristan left for Ireland, the news of his departure reached Baron Menheniot. With the village champion out of the way, it seemed an opportune time to send a task force to show the flag and exact fealty. His best knights were otherwise engaged, so the baron himself led an ill-assorted rabble of horsemen. He was too experienced an administrator to allow such men to collect fealty unsupervised.

  To their astonishment, they were met by a forewarned and workmanlike force of villagers under the command of Torre—and were beaten off. The high point of the battle came when the baron himself, riding full-tilt at Torre with his sword in mid-swing, passed under a low bough that knocked the weapon from his hand. Torre roared with laughter, reined in his horse and allowed the baron to dismount and retrieve the sword.

  The baron gave him a strange look, and thereafter seemed to have little stomach for the fight. Soon he called off his men—who were about to retreat anyway—held a short discussion, and approached Torre on foot. Smiling sheepishly, he proposed they hold a friendly meeting to resolve the issue of fealty.

  “Is there an issue?” asked Torre.

  Predictably, the discussions came to nothing, although a pleasant atmosphere prevailed and the beer flowed freely. By nightfall the issue had lost its urgency. The ex-combatants lay around a great fire in the forest clearing, yarning of adventures in far-off lands.

  Somebody said, “We need Nyneve to tell us a story.”

  Word was sent to the village. The women soon arrived, bringing more beer and venison. The younger women quickly began to find the baron’s men not so brutal as had first been supposed, and an enjoyable party developed. More wood was thrown onto the fire. Nyneve settled herself into the crotch of an oak, where her audience could see her.

  “This is a story we’ve been telling in Mara Zion,” she explained to the baron and his men. “It was told to me by Avalona and Merlin, whom you’ve probably heard of. At first I thought we were inventing the story as we went along, but it’s becoming too real for that. The story takes its own path and has its own rules, and I think it really did happen—or is going to happen,” she corrected herself, “because Avalona says it doesn’t finish until thirty thousand years into the future. Avalona and Merlin are really old, and they’ve seen a lot.”

  She went on to bring her audience up to date on Arthur and his rise to power, and when she came to the part when he was given Excalibur by the Lady of the Lake, her audience murmured in awe.

  “I can see it,” somebody said.

  “Hush,” a villager whispered. “That’s always the way with Nyneve’s stories.”

  “Excalibur,” the Baron murmured. “Isn’t that the name of Tristan’s sword?”

  “It is,” Torre answered him, grinning. “There’s a powerful magic in that sword.”

  “So I’m told. Although I’ve yet to be convinced. However, young Nyneve is a remarkable storyteller. I heard the story of the Lady of the Lake yesterday, by way of a man from Exeter. Her word gets around. I must invite her to the castle.” He lay back, giving himself over to the tale of adventure.

  Nyneve continued, “The time came when King Arthur found himself in love. She was the daughter of King Lodegrance of Camylarde and she was very beautiful, of course. Only the most beautiful queen would have been good enough for Arthur. Lodegrance was honored that Arthur had chosen his daughter as queen, and Guinevere seemed quite pleased, too, as well she might,” said Nyneve acidly, “because Arthur was quite a catch. King Lodegrance’s wedding gift was a huge round table, big enough to seat over a hundred knights.”

  The baron called out, “But if it was round, how could you tell where the head of the table was?”

  The table sat in their minds, oddly indistinct.

  “That was the whole idea. There was no head of the table. All knights were equal.”

  “But somebody had to sit next to the king. Those would have been the favoured knights, surely?”

  Nyneve thought for a moment, then said, “I expect they cut a hole in the middle of the table and Arthur sat there. It would be the only way. Anyway, the places were marked with the knights’ names in gold, all except one that was marked HOT SEAT. Merlin told the king it would mean death if the wrong person sat in that seat, because it was reserved for someone great, who hadn’t been born yet.”

  “Who was that?” asked Torre curiously.

  They saw it all: the table with the hole in the middle, the king sitting there with his knights in a great circle around him, and the one empty place. They saw it as vividly as ii the table had been set in the forest clearing right before them.

  “I don’t know,” Nyneve admitted. “That part of the story hasn’t happened yet. Anyway, the wedding took place and the banquet afterward, and everything went well. When they were finished eating, Merlin said, ‘Stay in your seats, please. Something unusual is going to happen.’ Merlin often says things like that. Then Avalona tells him off.

  “Suddenly a white deer came running into the hall, followed by a white hound and sixty black hounds. The white hound was snapping at the deer, and got a piece of it before the deer jumped over the table and got away. One of the knights grabbed the white hound, but the black hounds were running about all over the place, making a mess and eating the food. It wasn’t the kind of thing you’d want at your wedding feast. Then I rode into the hall on my horse—”

  “You?” exclaimed Baron Menheniot. “You’re in this story too?”

  Somebody said, “Be quiet. Of course Nyneve’s in the story. It’s her story, isn’t it?” And the baron sat back, smiling.

  “—and that knight made off with my white hound, so I complained to Arthur. Before he could do anything about it, another knight rode up and threw me across his horse, and galloped off with me. …”

  The listeners were silent, images building in their minds of a time and place removed from their own, yet not so far removed as to be unbelievable. Everyone in Nyneve’s story world was a little better, or a little worse, than real people—a little larger than life, and all the more exciting for it. And so the storytelling went, until Nyneve fell asleep in her tree; and by this time most of her listeners were asleep, too, and the story had continued for them as a dream. In their slumber t
hey performed acts of valor and rescued Nyneve from the knight who had carried her off. …

  The next day, Nyneve was invited to the castle to continue the story for the people of Menheniot. Many of the Mara Zion villagers attended, too, and it was an occasion for feasting and cementing new friendships.

  Three weeks later, Tristan returned from Ireland with Iseult, to find changes in Mara Zion. An alliance had been concluded with Baron Menheniot against the marauders from the east, and this had already borne fruit with a famous victory at Launceston.

  “And I missed all that?” asked Tristan.

  “I’m sure there were compensations,” said Torre, bowing to Iseult. “But where’s the Irish army you were bringing?”

  “I’m sure they’ll be here,” said Tristan evasively. “And we’ll need them, because I can’t say I completely trust the baron. This is all too sudden for my liking. Robber barons don’t change their ways so easily.”

  “You’re just disappointed you won’t be able to use Excalibur against him.” Torre laughed. “It’s good to see you back, anyway. We need a leader in Mara Zion. The baron’s accepted the new principles wholeheartedly—which is good—but it puts us in some danger of being swallowed up by him and his knights. Peacefully, but swallowed up all the same.”

  “The new principles. … Nyneve’s still telling her stories, then?”

  “The tale of Arthur grows almost nightly. And it’s spreading, too. Lamorak journeyed to the north coast last week and heard them talking about Arthur. The way they spoke, you’d think he was a real person.”

  “We really need a name for all this. You know, like the priests speak of Christianity.”

  “How about ‘Nynevity,’ “ suggested Torre.

  “I’m not sure she would like that. You’ve noticed how she doesn’t actually preach this new way of life? She illustrates it with her stories and lets us take it from there. But all the time in the background I can sense the influence of that witch Avalona. I don’t think Nyneve would want to be regarded as a figurehead.”

  “You think of a word for it, then. You’re the educated one in the village.”

  “I already have a word,” Tristan admitted. “I was educated in France, and there’s a word I’ve built up from the French word for horse, which says it all. Simple virtues, courtesy toward men and women alike, honesty, fighting fair, and horsemanship, of course. Why don’t we call it ‘chivalry’?”

  The game of pretend was getting too much for Nyneve, however. She was beginning to feel as though she were leading two lives. There was the everyday life of Mara Zion. Then there was the storybook life of Arthur and his world—which seemed to grow more real every evening, as she sat in the cottage with Avalona and Merlin. She was a part of both worlds, and she felt increasingly powerless to control her destiny in either.

  Added to which, the preparations for the wedding of Tristan and Iseult depressed her. Trying to analyze her feelings as she lay in bed one morning, she realized that one of Avalona’s predictions was coming true—at least so far as she was concerned. Subconsciously she was beginning to merge the personalities of Tristan and Arthur in her mind. She had bestowed many of Tristan’s pleasanter characteristics on Arthur, and the two men were now quite similar. Tristan had the potential to become a great leader of men, and a wise, compassionate and brave one too. And now he was going to marry Iseult. … Just for an instant, she had the notion to gallop into the wedding feast on a white horse and ruin the whole damned affair. Just like she’d done at Arthur’s wedding, to spite that prissy Guinevere …

  Then she pulled herself together. This was no way to begin a new day. She needed a change of scenery. She’d been getting too close to Mara Zion and its problems, recently. Today she would visit the gnomes. …

  She stepped out of the ring to find a tiny shelter had been built nearby. It was made of sticks laid like a ridge tent and plugged with moss. Fang was sound asleep inside. He awakened with a start.

  “I’ve been waiting for you for weeks!” he complained. “You’ve never stayed away so long before.”

  “You mean you’ve been here all that time?”

  “Well …” He flushed. “I slipped away each evening when I thought you’d be having supper. Just for a short while, down to the marsh stream.” He’d crawled out of his shack and now he stood, twisting his hands together in embarrassment. “Just to see if somebody was about, you know. But she never was. I haven’t seen her properly for ages.”

  “Yes, but why were you waiting for me?”

  He paused in the act of rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Nyneve, a terrible thing happened! Trish got killed, and people think Morble did it!”

  “Trish dead? How awful!” She remembered well the fat, jolly gnome. Trish had been quite a character at the dancing and other celebrations, an outstanding figure among the fifty or so gnomes of Mara Zion. “I don’t think Morble would have killed her though, Fang.”

  “I don’t think so either.” He was scampering along the forest path now, leading her to the scene of the tragedy. “She died in a strange way. There were no real wounds. Morble would have torn her up, I think.”

  “Morble wouldn’t have touched her. He only attacks if Merlin, Avalona or I am in danger.”

  “But he has to eat.”

  “He eats elsewhere. Anyway, how did Trish die?”

  “She looked as though a monster had stamped on her.” He halted, looking around. “This is the place.”

  This bit of forest looked familiar to Nyneve. There was an old fallen trunk nearby, rotted through, shaped like a fierce head. “Are you sure?” A kind of dread was mounting in her.

  “Yes. … This is it. What’s the matter, Nyneve? You look funny.”

  “Exactly when did this happen, Fang?”

  “The same night you rescued me from your world.”

  She remembered the walk through the forest a month ago, in the dark with Fang in her arms. She’d been hurrying to the mushroom glade, to send Fang back to his own world. It had been almost dark at the time. But … yes, it would have been about here. … She remembered stepping on something and thinking she heard a faint cry, but seeing nothing.

  Had the umbra been so thin that she’d stepped through one world into another, and stamped on Trish?

  Were the worlds getting so close together?

  She looked down at Fang. He was hopping from one foot to the other, waiting for her to speak. “Yes, yes?” he said. “What is it, Nyneve?”

  She said heavily, “I think I might have crushed Trish.”

  “You? You couldn’t have done that, Nyneve.”

  “I might have, in the dark.”

  “But you weren’t here. You went back to your own world.”

  “And in my world, I’d walked down this same path. …” And she reminded him of the cry she thought she’d heard. “So I think perhaps our two worlds came together for an instant. Perhaps they just kind of bounced off each other, and Trish happened to be there.”

  “So the worlds are really getting that close?”

  “I’m afraid it looks like it, Fang.”

  “What will happen to us gnomes?” he cried. “What are we going to do?”

  “You remember what I said before. You’re going to have to find some way back to your ancient home.”

  “But what if we can’t remember how?”

  She had no answer for him. The gnomes were gentle and peace-loving, which were hardly suitable attributes for the violent world of humans. She imagined the gnomes quickly enslaved and used as playthings and curiosities. Every castle would have its complement of gnomes, who would be used to entertain guests. Ladies of leisure would have personal gnomes. Gnomes would be used to unblock drains. At last she said, “I’ll help all I can,” but she knew it would not be enough.

  “How?”

  She came to a quick decision. “Let’s go back to the ring,” she said. “I’ll show you how to pass through into my world. Then you can come and fetch me any time things lo
ok as though they’re getting out of hand.”

  “I … I won’t have any trouble getting back again?”

  “It works both ways.”

  They returned to the mushroom ring and spent the rest of the morning practicing. Fang learned the technique of shutting off the everyday processes of his mind, repeating an odd little poem to prepare himself, then making the jump through the shrinking piece of the greataway which separated gnomedom from the human world. In effect, he learned what later civilizations called the Outer Think. He was well equipped for it because he was a kind and loving gnome, unlikely to be rejected by the strange natural forces that guard the greataway. The reason why the kikihuahuas themselves never learned the Outer Think, despite their gentleness and the principles embodied in their examples, is one of the great mysteries of the Song of Earth.

  By noon, Nyneve was satisfied with Fang’s abilities and they rested under an elm tree. It was a pleasant day and the sun-dappled grass was warm. “This is nice,” said Fang, pleased with himself and his new accomplishment.

  Nyneve glanced at him, a contented little man lying back against the tree and sipping from his flask of beer, and she smiled to herself. He’d already forgotten the perilous situation his people were in. The sun was warm, he’d learned a new trick, and he still had half a flask of beer left. She envied his simple happiness. It was a characteristic of the gnomes, and one that would work against them in the difficult days to come. What a pity life couldn’t always be like this for them—and for her, too.

  Suddenly curious, she asked, “Don’t you ever think about getting married, Fang?”

  He gave her a shy look. “Yes.”

  “Well … why don’t you?”

  “I’m not sure she’d want me.”

  “Have you asked her?”

  “No. I hardly ever see her, these days. She never seems to come out.”

  “If you haven’t asked her, how do you know she wouldn’t want you?”

  “She’s so beautiful. She could have any gnome in Mara Zion. I know I don’t stand a chance, so I haven’t asked.”