Fang, the Gnome (Song of Earth)

by Coney, Michael G.

  “What?” sleepily, she rolled over. A tiny figure stood nearby.

  “What?” It seemed startled at her reply, and backed away.

  “What do you mean, ‘what’?”

  “You … you’re not supposed to hear me. I didn’t mean to be offensive. I was just expressing my thoughts. Giants only exist in the umbra, you know.”

  “Are you a gnome?”

  “I am. They call me Hal o’ the Moor.”

  “Do they?” She’d heard that name before, somewhere. “My name’s Nyneve,” she said. The battles still echoed in her mind. Had Merlin been playing the game nearby? Had she somehow picked up his thoughts?

  “What are you doing in my world?”

  “I don’t know. Something strange has happened.”

  “I’ll say it has,” he agreed. “My home has disappeared, for one thing. It’s nothing much, I’ll grant you that, but it’s been in the family for generations. Tonight I came back and found it gone. Somebody’s going to answer for this.” He stared at her accusingly, a pointed face in the moonlight.

  “That’s not the only strange thing,” said Nyneve. “There’s a new kind of animal down there.”

  “Oh, that. That’s just a fogdog. It won’t hurt you, as long as you stay near the rock.”

  “Listen, Hal o’ the Hill, fogdogs are unusual where I come from. I’ve never seen one before.”

  “Hal o’ the Moor. They’re a diabolical invention of my cousin the Miggot of One, may he roast on a giant’s spit.”

  “Oh, the Miggot.” Now she could see the family resemblance.

  “You know him?”

  “Of course. I know all the gnomes in Mara Zion … except you. Why do you live up here on the moor? It’s not gnome country.”

  “Because I choose to,” snapped Hal. “You still haven’t told me what you’re doing here.”

  “I’ve told you I don’t know. One of the moons disappeared, and—” She stopped. Here she was, sitting on a rock with a gnome. They could see each other clearly, and talk to each other. Obviously they were on the same happentrack.

  Which meant that the happentracks had joined.

  Things began to fall into place. Avalona’s mutterings. The fears of Fang. The disappearance of the moon. The happentracks were separated by a little time and space, and now the gap was closed. The gnome’s world was hers, and vice versa. And Merlin? Somehow the cave had sealed itself in the spacial reshuffling. After a moment’s panic, she decided that Merlin was well equipped to look after himself.

  But the gnomes were not. Down there in the forest, they must be scared out of their wits. Suddenly the giants were among them, stamping on them and enslaving them, training them as clowns. … Or perhaps not quite yet. The gnomes would still be in bed; but in the morning …

  “Come on, Hal!” she said, getting to her feet. “We must hurry!”

  “I never hurry. Hurrying is a sign of immaturity.”

  She picked him up. He uttered a little squeal at the indignity of it and began to struggle. “Do you want me to drop you over the edge?” she asked him.

  “No!”

  “Then be still and let me carry you. Unless we reach the village by daybreak, your people are going to be slaughtered. Can you imagine what will happen,” she asked him as she climbed down to the ground, “if the villagers find the forest is suddenly alive with gnomes? They’re superstitious people in Mara Zion, I can tell you. They’ll assume the gnomes were sent by the devil and they’ll wipe them out—those they don’t keep as pets. So—” She glanced around for signs of the fogdog, but it seemed to have gone looking for easier prey, “—let’s get going!” She broke into an awkward run, holding Hal under one arm.

  In this way Nyneve returned to Mara Zion.

  Iseult’s Decision

  “Halt! You there, halt!”

  Nyneve, breathless from running, looked around. In the faint predawn light the forest looked black and uninhabited, and she could not locate the source of the shout.

  “Why?” she called back at the trees.

  “In the name of Baron Menheniot, stay where you are!” A dim figure stepped from behind a tree, sword drawn.

  “I’m in a hurry.” Nyneve was more annoyed than scared. The forest held no fears, with Morble just a happentrack away—or possibly closer, since the Misty Moon had left the sky.

  “It’s a woman. Well, I’m damned. And what business have you in the forest at this hour, my lady?”

  Nyneve recognized Ned Palomides. “Stop playing games, Ned. I’ll go where I like.”

  “If it isn’t little Nyneve, back after her travels with her stepfather.” Now there was an offensive sneer in his voice. “You’ll find things have changed while you were away. You’ll find you have to do as you are told. The baron’s word is law in Mara Zion, and I’m the baron’s man.”

  “The baron? I thought Tristan was in charge here.”

  He uttered a short laugh. “Tristan? He’s never around, and he’s paid the penalty for that. The people here are happier without him anyway—he was always making fighting speeches and leading the men off to war. War! What were all the battles for, eh? Where did it get us? Whether England belongs to us or the king of Morocco is of no concern to us. The baron stopped all that nonsense. He protects us here in Mara Zion and I respect him for it.”

  “You never did like the battles, did you, Ned?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I mean Tristan’s twice the man you are.”

  “At least I don’t try to kill my best friend.”

  “I don’t suppose you have one, but what does that have to do with Tristan?”

  “He’s after Torre, now. He’s taken a small force and he’s gone chasing off north, swearing he’ll kill Torre. Torre’s popular, so this divided the village into two camps. The baron stepped in. He said it might be better if Tristan never came back, and I agree. So we’re keeping a lookout for Tristan, and if he comes near Mara Zion again it’ll be the worse for him!”

  “I can’t believe Tristan would want to kill Torre.”

  Palomides chuckled. “You need to catch up on local gossip. What’s that you’ve got behind your back? A rabbit, is it? I’ll take that from you. It’ll be the first tribute you pay the baron.”

  “Get away from me, Ned!”

  “Give it to me. Aha!” He’d swung Nyneve around and was staring at Hal. “It’s a little man, like the one I had before. A gnome. I’ll take him.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  “And who’s going to stop me?”

  “Morble is.”

  He stepped back a pace, hastily. After a quick glance around to see if the shadows concealed monsters, he said, in more reasonable tones, “Let me have him, Nyneve. I have to show him to the village. When I told them about the last gnome, they said I was drunk. They said I was seeing piskeys. I want them to eat their words.”

  “Sorry, Ned.”

  “Well, I’ll take him anyway.” In his frustration, Palomides forgot the lurking threat of Morble and seized Nyneve’s arm—then swung round with a moan of dread as he heard a crashing in the bushes.

  But it was a stranger—a tall, handsome knight on a white horse, clad in bright silver armor and bearing a shield with an unfamiliar device. He was quite the best-looking man Nyneve had ever seen—in fact, he looked more like those perfect knights she’d conjured up during the game. He was just too good to be true; and yet there he sat, looking down at her from his great horse, surrounded by an aura of gentle strength, of kindness and goodness.

  “Leave this girl alone,” the newcomer said to Palomides.

  Something in the knight’s manner told Palomides that he would be wise to obey. Mildly, he said, “I just wanted to show people the gnome, Galahad.”

  “And what does the gnome think about that?” asked Galahad.

  “What does it matter what he thinks?”

  “He is small and weak. It’s my guess that he’d find it frightening to be surrounded
by people, shouting at him and poking him with their fingers. Those people would want to know where the rest of the gnomes are; and once they knew, they would go and find them. I don’t need to tell you what would happen next, do I?”

  “You talk as though these gnomes are normal people.”

  Galahad addressed Hal o’ the Moor, bending low and speaking quietly. “Are you a normal person, gnome?”

  “I … I think so. I’m the right size, anyway.” Gaining confidence, Hal said, “Which is more than I can say for you people!”

  “You see,” said Galahad. “He’s a normal person.”

  “But that’s only what he says,” objected Palomides.

  “I have no cause to doubt him. Now.” Galahad turned to Nyneve. “Young lady, are you familiar with these gnomes?”

  “I’m Nyneve. Yes, I know the gnomes.”

  Palomides exclaimed, “You know them? What do you mean? Where have they come from?”

  “They’ve always been here. You’ve called them piskeys, but you’ve never completely believed in them. You’ve just glimpsed them occasionally, when their world’s slipped close to ours for a moment.” She turned to Galahad. “I know where they live, and I can take this gnome to his cousin’s home, if it’s still there. … I’m terribly afraid something may have happened to them all.”

  “Ride with me,” said Galahad. To Palomides he said, “You stay here.”

  Nyneve, still holding Hal o’ the Moor, swung up behind Galahad and together they rode deeper into the forest.

  “So you see, I’ve got to try to help them. As you said, it would be a disaster for the gnomes to be discovered by humans,” said Nyneve.

  There was something about Galahad that encouraged a person to confide in him, and in the course of a few minutes’ ride she had told him everything she knew about the gnomes and the converging happentracks. He had grasped the situation quickly.

  “We must hide them away,” he said. “But we can’t hide them forever. Sooner or later they’ll be discovered, but perhaps we’ll have been able to prepare people for them by then. Most people are like Palomides. As soon as they come across something unusual, they want to possess it. Our alchemists might say they want to study it, but it comes to the same thing. The gnomes lose their freedom.”

  They rode on in the brightening morning, Hal dozing on Nyneve’s lap, until Galahad reined in his horse suddenly.

  “What is it?” asked Nyneve.

  “I heard something. … Is it an animal, or …?” He cocked his head. “Listen, do you hear it? Over there!”

  “It’s someone crying,” said Nyneve.

  “We must see if he can help.”

  “Oh, do we have to?” It had been pleasant riding through the forest with Galahad, and Nyneve didn’t want to share him with some village woman with problems. But Galahad struck off through the bush. Soon they found the woman huddled against a tree and weeping, a small bag of possessions at her side.

  “It’s Iseult!” exclaimed Nyneve. She slid from the horse, set Hal on the ground and ran to Iseult’s side. “What’s the matter?”

  “Tristan threw me out of the house.”

  “When was this?”

  “Three days ago. He’d only been back a day before he found out about Torre and me. …”

  “You and Torre? Iseult, how could you do a thing like that?”

  “It was easy enough. Tristan was away for ages—all winter, did you know? Of course, you were away, too. …” A sudden look of suspicion crossed Iseult’s tear-stained face. “You weren’t with him, were you?”

  Annoyed, Nyneve snapped, “No, I was with Merlin.”

  “I can’t say I admire your taste, and you must admit you and Tristan have been quite close in the past. He told me.”

  “That was ages ago, before you came. Anyway, what are we quarreling for? You’re my friend and so is Tristan. I want to help.”

  Galahad said, “Perhaps I should leave you two. I ought to get back to the village and see if there are any reports of gnomes—and you should see about rounding up your little friends, Nyneve. We should meet later today to compare notes.”

  “Noon,” suggested Nyneve. “On the path to my foster mother’s cottage.”

  He nodded, swung his horse around and rode away, and Nyneve asked Iseult, “Who is this Galahad?”

  “I don’t know. He rode into the village jut after Tristan and the men arrived back. Nobody knows anything about him. He … he went into Tristan’s great hall and joined a meeting at the round table, and sat down in the Hot Seat—you know that place where nobody sits?”

  “ ‘Reserved for a perfect knight,’ “quoted Nyneve from the game. “What did Tristan say about that?”

  “He seemed to accept it. Of course, everyone was happy and there was a lot of celebrating going on, so perhaps he didn’t like to say anything. But no thunderbolt struck Galahad, or anything like that, so perhaps he is a perfect knight.”

  “How dull,” said Nyneve. “I’d hoped for better things from him.”

  Iseult laughed, and impulsively hugged Nyneve. “It’s been so lonely here without you!”

  “What did happen between you and Torre, Iseult?”

  “Nothing much. Torre came back from the fighting to bring us news—although I think Tristan may have sent him to find out what the baron was up to. He talked about Tristan and his army, and their victories. Of course I was pleased to see him, and he was very popular in the village. … It did people good, getting news, because they’d begun to complain about Tristan taking all the men away. I saw a lot of Torre for a while, and perhaps we got more friendly than we should have done. But there has nothing in it, really. Nothing more than loneliness … Then Tristan came back, so of course it was all over.”

  “So what went wrong?”

  “I … don’t know how it happened. One night they were all in the great hall, celebrating, and I suppose I was getting a bit tired of Tristan’s victories because it meant I was having to share him with everyone else. So I went home, hoping Tristan would come before long. Anyway, soon after I got into bed, I heard a knock on the door. It was Torre. He seemed to think I’d sent for him, but I hadn’t, of course, so there must have been a misunderstanding somewhere. Well …” Iseult hesitated. “I was upset about Tristan and his boasting, and how he never came home until late, and Torre … put his arms round me. I was dressed in my nightgown. We … kind of stood there for a while. Then the door crashed open and Tristan came charging in, waving that sword of his.”

  “An awkward situation,” Nyneve observed.

  “It was a disastrous situation. ‘My best friend and my wife together!’ he shouted. ‘The rumors were true, and I wouldn’t believe them. What a bloody fool I was!’ By now Torre and I had jumped apart, of course, and Tristan went for Torre with Excalibur swinging. Tristan was drunk, or he’d never have attacked an unarmed man. He really tries to act out those stories of yours.” Iseult gulped. “He’s such a good man, really, and he did have some justification for behaving that way. Anyway, Torre jumped out of the window.”

  Nyneve stifled a giggle.

  “I grabbed hold of Tristan to stop him following Torre, and tried to explain. He wasn’t at all convinced. He threw me aside and stormed out. I ran after him, thinking he was going after Torre, but he simply went back to the party and joined in the drinking and shouting again. I didn’t know what to do, so in the end I went to bed, but I didn’t sleep. Round about dawn Tristan came back—much calmer, but dangerous-looking. I think he’d fallen asleep at the party and woken with a bad hangover. ‘I’ve thought the matter over,’ he said, ‘and I refuse to be the laughingstock of Mara Zion. My men will lose all respect for me. Torre has stained your honor and mine, and it’s my duty as a soldier and a gentleman to kill him, even if it means pursuing him to the far corners of the realm!’ He was all quiet and dignified.

  “ ‘I’m sure Torre would apologize,’ I said, but it was a mistake. He went a funny color.

  “ ‘Apologi
ze!’ he shouted. ‘I wouldn’t accept an apology from Torre if Arthur himself commanded me to.’ You can imagine how that scared me, him talking about Arthur as though he was a real person. His eyes were really strange-looking. ‘I shall ride today,’ he said, ‘and my men will ride with me. We will hunt down Torre like an animal, and dig him out of whatever hole he may crawl into. We will not return until justice is done.’ And around noon, off they all rode.” Iseult sniffed. “That’s two days ago, and nobody’s seen them since. Yesterday the baron moved in with his men.”

  Nyneve said, “The baron set you up, didn’t he?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, come now, Iseult, you’re not that simple. Was it one of the baron’s men who sent Torre to your house?”

  “As a matter of fact I think it was.”

  “And I expect the same man spoke in Tristan’s ear a little while later. It’s so obvious, Iseult. The baron used you and Torre to get Tristan out of the way. He couldn’t have done much while Tristan was away at war, because people would have resisted. But now, with Tristan off on some personal vendetta, the situation’s changed. How many men went with Tristan?”

  “Not many. After all, they’d only just got back. Perhaps a dozen. The others stayed, and they didn’t seem to mind the baron moving in. I … I think they’re tired of fighting.”

  “I should hope they are.”

  “You started it, Nyneve. You told all those stories about Arthur and honor and chivalry and battles. Why did you do it?”

  Nyneve thought for a long time. “I’m not sure,” she said. “I think Avalona influenced me … and I suppose I liked the way people listened, and the men watched me. And it was so real. It’s not real to me any more, Iseult. The end of the story has almost come. Arthur is dying.”

  “Don’t bother to tell me.”

  They sat for a while in thought, then Nyneve said suddenly, “Where’s the gnome?”

  “Gnome? What do you mean?”

  “He must have slipped away,” Nyneve murmured to herself. “It’s probably for the best. He’ll find the others and warn them. All the same, I’d better go and make sure. Will you be all right?” she asked Iseult, who was regarding her strangely.