“These things happen. She knew what she was doing.”
“She died for him, willingly. I don’t think anyone would die for me. She was quite a woman. And Tristan was quite a man. I’ve killed them both.”
“It wouldn’t be seemly to talk like that in the village. It might be interpreted as weakness.”
The baron sighed. “I don’t care how it’s interpreted—he shall have the finest funeral we can give him. Build a litter for him, men. We’ll take him home. Place Excalibur on his chest.”
When Nyneve and Galahad reached Mara Zion they found the villagers gathered in the great hall, drinking and milling around the Round Table. As they entered, someone handed them wine.
“What’s going on?” Nyneve asked.
Pelleas, already half drunk, peered at her. “Torre’s on his way,” he said. “But that’s not all. We’ve got piskeys here. Real piskeys in Mara Zion. You’ve never seen the like of them. Tiny little buggers. They’re real, after all!”
“That must be a great relief to you,” said Nyneve acidly.
“So they’ve captured your gnomes,” murmured Galahad. “What now?
“Our gnomes,” Nyneve corrected him quietly. “Everybody’s gnomes. It’s our duty to protect them.”
Galahad pushed his way through the crowd, Nyneve following in his wake. For the first time she had a chance to assess people’s reaction to this strange new knight. As he moved them aside they would swing round in annoyance; then, seeing his face, they would smile and nod, and let him through. He had an unusual power, this Galahad.
Soon they reached the Round Table. Although the places had been marked with the names of those entitled to sit in them, the village men had ignored the signs and were sprawled in any available chair. They stared with open-mouthed curiosity at the gnomes who huddled in a frightened bunch on the table top. Only one seat was unoccupied: that which bore the legend HOT SEAT. This chair had gained a reputation for being jinxed. Unauthorized users had a tendency to die in unpleasant circumstances. Galahad had never shown any such superstitious fears, however, and immediately sat in the Hot Seat, Nyneve climbing onto the table and sitting, cross-legged, with the gnomes. They gathered around her with tiny cries of delight.
“We’re in big trouble, Nyneve,” said Fang. “The happen-tracks have joined. The Earth has only two moons, have you noticed? And now these giants are getting ready for a barbecue! And they keep telling us to dance!”
“We’ll get you out of this,” Nyneve reassured him.
“How?”
“I don’t know, yet,” she admitted. “I think Galahad may have something up his sleeve.”
“He looks kind of pale to me,” said King Bison critically, examining the watchful knight in the Hot Seat.
By now the spectators had recovered from the surprise arrival of Nyneve and Galahad, and were banging on the table and demanding that the gnomes entertain them. Somewhere a fiddler began to play, and the table thumping became rhythmic and organized.
Nyneve jumped to her feet. “Will you stop that!”
Palomides shouted back, “Come on, Nyneve, you dance, too. You have far better legs than these fat little piskeys!”
Nyneve, infuriated, stepped forward and kicked at his face. In ducking, he overbalanced and his chair fell back with a crash, spilling him onto the dirt floor. There was a roar of laughter. He sprang to his feet, red-faced. “You’ll pay for that Nyneve!”
Now Galahad stood. “You’ll leave her alone, Ned.”
A hand caught hold of Nyneve’s leg and slid upward. She jumped back, whirling round, but was unable to identify the culprit from among the grinning faces below her. She was relieved when Galahad jumped onto the table beside her.
“The gnomes must go free,” he thundered.
“But we’ve only just caught them.” somebody shouted back. “And anyway, who are you to give orders?”
“My sword will answer that question,” replied Galahad ominously.
“Come on now, Galahad,” said Palomides in reasonable tones.
“You’re outnumbered and outvoted. There’s no point in fighting. The majority should rule. We want some fun with these little fellows, then we’ll leave them alone. The women can use them at home, I’m sure. But first, let’s see them perform.”
“Has it occurred to you they might not want to perform?” said Galahad. “And what right have the women to use then afterward?”
“I’m sure we can set up some very comfortable cages for them,” said Palomides. “It’s not as if we’re going to ill use them.”
“You will not use them at all,” said Galahad. “Can’t you see how wrong that is?”
“No, I can’t. They’re only piskeys. Get off the table Galahad; you’re spoiling the party.”
Other voices began to join in, urging Nyneve and Galahad to climb down. Somebody tossed a jug from the edge of the crowd and it hit the table close to the Princess of the Willow Tree, shattering and splashing the gnomes with foaming beer. The crowd roared with appreciation. Men began to rock the table. Matters were getting out of hand when there was an unexpected interruption.
The baron entered, followed by a handful of his men carrying the litter on which Tristan lay, pallid and still. Quietness spread through the crowd until, on the far side of the table, a last squealing voice halted in embarrassed mid-sentence.
“What’s going on here?” asked the baron.
Palomides hastened to explain. “We found a bunch of piskeys.” he said. “Come and look. They’re the strangest little fellows! We’re going to make them dance. Here, have my seat, sir. So you got Tristan. That’s good.”
“Tristan is dying,” said the baron. “I’ve killed him and, believe me, I regret it. He was a very brave man and a credit to Mara Zion, and he will have the finest burial we can give him.” He stared around at the gathering, seeing genuine regret in the faces, but no open hostility toward himself. A few people gathered around the litter, which his men had now laid on a bench. Tristan lay still with closed eyes, his breathing barely discernible. Blood welled slowly from the wound in his stomach and dripped to the floor. Somewhere, a woman sobbed quietly.
“And as for the piskeys,” continued the baron, having inspected the Round Table with some astonishment, “you will let them go. It seems to me that they are people just like us—their only misfortune being that they are smaller. They will live free lives in the forest, just as you villagers will.
“You see, I’m going to move my men out of Mara Zion. From now on we will live as neighbors and allies, there will be no collection of tribute, and we will all try to abide by the code of behavior bequeathed us by Tristan.” He passed a hand over his brow, frowning. “Today I did a terrible thing in the name of conquest—probably the single most despicable act I’ve committed in my life. I killed Tristan and Iseult, two people who were once my friends, two people who loved each other dearly and whom I had tried to set against each other. And as I walked back through the forest, mourning—because at least I knew I’d done wrong—I met an old woman who told me what I must do next. And thank God I did meet her, because I might not have had the wisdom to do it myself.
“She laid out a course of action for me, and I will not be swayed from it. We will live alongside each other, Menheniot and Mara Zion. We will allow each other free passage through our lands. But one thing more: we will claim no land as our own except such land as we actually use for our houses and our crops. As the old woman pointed out to me, for Mara Zion or Menheniot to claim ownership of the forest is meaningless. How can you own something you do not possess? Why should you own something you do not need? The forest doesn’t belong to us any more than it belongs to the wild animals—or the piskeys. The forest is the forest. It is free to all, and so is the moor, and the sea.”
Gareth spoke up. “We fought our way across all of Cornwall,” he said, “and we lost a lot of men. But we captured the land. Are you saying it’s not ours any more?”
“Are you standing on
it? Can you bend down and touch it? How can it be yours, Gareth? You can’t even see it. It’s the other side of the moors. But the people who live there can see it and touch it.”
“So we wasted our time and our lives in battle?”
“Did you enjoy the battle? Do you feel better for it?”
Gareth said, “There’s no feeling quite like victory.”
“Then you didn’t waste your time. And as for the men who died—they died heroes, and there is no better way to go. Let the land go, Gareth. We’ve made our point. We’ve proved that Mara Zion and Menheniot are strong, and marauders will think twice before they come our way again. And we’ve spread the word of chivalry far and wide because we fought fairly, and gave quarter to our enemies when they asked it. And if we did become a little carried away with the notion of conquest, well, we’re only human. We’ve learned our lessons. We’ve discovered our strengths and weaknesses, and we’re the wiser for it.”
He paused, and into the slightly tense silence Galahad roared, “Three cheers for the baron!” And such was the power of his personality that they did cheer; and the first cheer sounded good, and the new deal the baron proposed began to look pretty good, too. After all, who wanted to die young, hero or not? So the second cheer rang out with more confidence and people began to grin at one another with a sudden sense of unity, so that the third cheer nearly lifted the thatch from the Great Hall.
At this point even legend admits that there were some dissenters. Palomides said, “The gnomes. Did I understand you to say something about letting the gnomes go, Baron? That would be a pity, wouldn’t it?”
“You don’t own the gnomes, Palomides. They must be as free to wander the land as the rest of us. Take them outside and let them go.”
Palomides nodded, beaten. Then Galahad spoke up. “It’s dark out there now, Baron, and dangerous for these tiny people. I’ll give them board and lodgings for the night, and they can go their own way in the morning.” He began to lift the gnomes down from the table. The crowd made room for him, and soon he led them out into the night.
The Morte
Black-cowled, they rowed the Lake of Avalon.
The greataway was in their eyes, their faces wan
Like sea-drowned flesh long wet. By pain beset,
One woman in a happentracks cocoon
Wept real tears. Beside her the King. Above her the Moon.
But she knew it not, not yet.
—“Le Morte de Tristan”
The Rainbow, 55726–
Tristan regained consciousness for a short period the following evening, while the funeral barge was being prepared at the shore of the lake. He opened his eyes, caught sight of the vessel, the draperies, the women at work, and said:
“Somebody important must have died.” His voice was little more than a whisper.
Nyneve, her face close to his, said, “A very great man. You must rest easily, Tristan.”
“You must have been quite fond of him, to cry like that.”
“There’s a cold wind this morning and it stings my eyes. Please keep still, Tristan. You’ve been wounded.”
“Where’s Iseult? Why doesn’t she come?”
“She’ll be with you soon.”
Another voice sounded nearby. “Tristan?”
He looked up and smiled. “Torre. My friend. I’m glad you came. I want to apologize for misjudging you. I should never have done that.”
Torre knelt beside the stretcher and took Tristan’s hand. “I was a fool. I was never anything worse.”
“I know that. Torre … they’re getting a funeral barge ready over there and Nyneve won’t tell me who it’s for. Will you?”
Torre said quietly, “I understand a great leader of men has died. A Cornishman.”
“Oh. Is he from hereabouts?”
“I believe so.”
“Strange that I can’t recollect who he might be.” The faint smile remained on Tristan’s lips. “Well, my friend Torre, I don’t feel too alive myself at the moment. Just in case I might join that great leader quite soon, I’d like you to do something for me.”
“Anything you say.”
“I’d like you to take my sword Excalibur, and throw it into the lake. No—don’t look so surprised. It’s a good sword, but it was only lent me for the duration of my life. The time has come to return it to its rightful owner.”
Reluctantly Torre lifted Excalibur from the stretcher and stood looking at it. A chance ray of evening sun caught it, and the bright metal glittered strangely. “I’ll do it,” he said.
“And Torre—you may be tempted to keep it, because that’s the way men are made. We are thrifty, and it may seem a pity to throw away such a valuable thing. But don’t give way to temptation, because I will know. You see, something strange will happen when you throw that sword, and you must tell me what it is.”
“Of course.” Torre left them, carrying the sword.
Tristan said to Nyneve, “Have I done the right thing?”
“You always have. Avalona is satisfied. She appeared before the baron and … persuaded him to do certain things. You were unconscious at the time.”
“The—what do you call them?—the happentracks are working out?”
“They are.”
“I wonder … when that barge will leave.”
“It’s almost ready, I think.”
Torre returned and knelt beside Tristan. “I did it,” he said.
“What did you see?”
“A splash. Nothing more. What should I have seen?”
“No arm clad in white samite, rising from the water?”
Torre glanced worriedly at Nyneve. “That was when you got the sword, wasn’t it? Was it supposed to happen again?”
Nyneve said quickly, “He did throw it in. I saw.”
Tristan smiled. “It’d be pretty queer if everything worked out the way it’s supposed to. Merlin told me what to expect. He was wrong.”
Nyneve said quietly, “Merlin is often wrong. He tries to foretell the ifalong, but he makes mistakes. One of those mistakes has got him locked away inside a rock right now, and I don’t know when he’ll ever get out. For all I know there may have been an arm in white samite on other happentracks. But it would have been my arm, and I’m here beside you. I can’t be in two places at once.”
“Your arm? So it was you who gave me Excalibur, Nyneve?”
“Well, yes. Sort of.”
“Thank you. I have a lot to thank you for. You’ve been responsible for directing the most important part of my life. The only important part of my life. Your stories, your advice, everything.”
The tears were coming fast. “It seems to me I’m responsible for this.” Her gaze traveled from Tristan to the barge and the mourners.
“It was worth it. There’s no pain. Men have died for much less than I die for.” He closed his eyes. Nyneve placed a hand on his heart. The beat was very faint and hesitant.
“It’s time, now.” Avalona stood over them. “Torre, will you help us carry him to the barge?”
They laid him on a bench that ran down the center of the vessel. Nyneve sat on a seat nearby. Torre stepped ashore and joined the villagers and the baron, who stood silently by. There were people already on the barge: strange women whose shadowy faces filled Nyneve with dread.
“Who are they?” she asked Avalona.
“They are all the Dedos of Earth.”
The moons had risen over the black hillside, silvering one half of the lake and casting the other into deepest shadow. Nyneve shivered and said, “Avalona, I’m afraid. Something’s going to happen, isn’t it? Do I have to come on this boat?”
“It is inevitable,” said the Dedo.
“Are we going over there?” She indicated the blackness on the far side of the lake. The boat was rocking gently now, and the Dedos were rowing with oars of carved black oak.
“Over there, and far beyond.”
“Why can’t I see those women properly?”
“Y
ou will.”
“I’m … not sure I want to.”
But the faces of the rowers were losing their misty aspect and becoming clear, hard and pitiless. One Dedo in particular had a face of great beauty and the utmost evil. She saw Nyneve looking at her, and smiled. “Hello, little one,” she murmured, rowing slowly. “We must become acquainted, because we’ll be seeing a lot of each other in the ifalong. My name is Morgan le Fay. That’s my brother lying beside you. He was a good man. Such a pity he’s joining us.”
“But Tristan has no sister. …”
Something strange happened to the light. The lake was suddenly much darker, although they had not yet entered the shadowed part. Then she noticed something.
“Avalona,” she whispered, “there’s only one moon.”
“The happentracks have joined.”
But … you told me that yesterday, when three moons became two. How can it happen again?”
“There were three moons, yes. And there were three happentracks. The one you thought of as gnomedom; and the one we lived in; and another—that we visited quite often when we played the game with Merlin. The game was more real than you knew. That was why you didn’t have complete control over the events. It was a half-world—part imagination, but part possibility. As it developed, it changed. It became a distinct probability, and finally a real world in its own right. And, like gnomedom, it was headed on a collision course with our own world.”
“But how can a game become real?”
“I’ve told you before, there are an infinite number of happentracks. I simply chose one suitable for my purpose. We entered it through the game, and made sure it developed in a suitable manner.”
“But … why?”
“You will have the privilege of finding out in due course, Nyneve.”
Nyneve examined the faces of the women, and they looked back at her dispassionately. Then, fearfully, she forced herself to look at the dying Tristan beside her.
But he was no longer Tristan; neither was he dying.
He was taller, dressed in bright armor, and his hair was flaming red. His nose was longer than Tristan’s, his face thinner, the nose aquiline. He possessed an indefinable air of dignity. Nyneve recognized him, lowered her head and knelt beside him. “My Lord,” she said.
Fang, the Gnome (Song of Earth) Page 34
