After a long and breathless wait, Pong emerged into full daylight.
He was of medium height as gnomes go, stockily built, his normally cheery face a mask of apprehension as his eyes darted this way and that. He wore heavy leather knee-length boots, into which were tucked thick linen pants of faded blue; a heavy, knitted black sweater with a roll neck; and on his head the traditional conical red cap was firmly jammed.
Pong looked like what he was: a sailorgnome with a secret dread. Poised for flight, he scanned the beach.
The subject of his dread was not in sight, however. He relaxed, stretched, smiled at the early-morning sunshine, sniffed the salt-laden air, savored the warm breeze on his face, and heard the scrunch of a footstep on the pebbles.
With a squeal of fright he whirled around and darted back into the cave.
A shelf ran along the west wall of the cave. Pong scrambled onto this, burrowed into a pile of blankets, drew his feet to his chest, and lay motionless. Soon he heard footsteps again, slightly louder than the beating of his heart. They echoed off the roof of the cave, approaching. In his terror, Pong fancied he could hear the chattering of giant mandibles, and the clicking of pincers limbering up for a grab.
“Hello?”
“Yah!” Pong let out an involuntary yell of horror.
“Is anybody there?”
“Yes. Certainly. Yes.” It dawned on Pong that the voice was a gnomish one, rather than the roar of crustacean hunger that he’d imagined it to be. “Very much so,” babbled Pong, sliding down from his shelf to greet the newcomer. “Welcome, welcome. My humble abode. Don’t often get visitors. Lovely day.”
“It certainly is.” The two gnomes moved out into the sunlight and scrutinized each other.
Pong decided that this was the most pleasant gnome he’d ever clapped eyes on. The newcomer’s boots were smeared with sheep dung, his pants worn and stained, his jacket ill-fitting, and his cap a curious color suggestive of decay. He had narrow, sneaky eyes and a bulbous nose. When compared to Pong’s secret dread, however, he was a fine-looking figure of a gnome.
“You’re a stranger to Mara Zion,” said Pong.
The other held out his hand. “Bart o’ Bodmin.”
Pong returned the clammy grasp. “They call me Pong the Intrepid.”
“Oh? Why?”
In later years Pong was to identify that as the moment when he first had misgivings about the character of Bart o’ Bodmin. It was bad manners to question another gnome’s name. Sometimes a name was hereditary, like Hal o’ the Moor, whose ancestors had always lived at Pentor. Sometimes a name was earned, like Pong’s friend Fang, who rid the forest of a fearsome beast. But once the name was bestowed, it stuck, and was carried into history by gnomish Memorizers. It was never challenged.
“I undertake perilous voyages on the seas,” said Pong coldly, waving an arm at the sunny water. “What do you do?”
“I am a Memorizer.”
“You’re a long way from home. Shouldn’t you be back at Bodmin, memorizing local history?”
“We’re trying to get away from the concept of the parochial Memorizer, back in Bodmin,” said Bart. “Gnomish history is more than a few scattered groups each going its own way. Gnomish history”—here his eyes took on a visionary gleam—”is an eternal and wondrous thing, spanning the galaxy. But gnomish history must be integrated, otherwise future historians will be not be able to make any sense of it. We must seek to portray the great sweep of our heritage, unified and glorious!”
“So you have a lot of traveling to do, Bart.” Like all gnomes, Pong was proud of gnomish history. The immensity of Bart’s mission deserved his respect. “Where’s your rabbit? It will need feeding and watering.”
“The bugger ran out on me,” complained Bart. “And now I must continue on foot.”
“I believe Jack o’ the Warren has good riding rabbits,” suggested Pong. “He lives in the forest.”
“You must give me the directions,” said Bart. “But meanwhile I need to rest.” He sat down with his back to a rock. “Tell me about Mara Zion, Pong.”
Something caused Pong to prevaricate. As Bart’s narrow features squinted up at him, it seemed they had an almost ratlike appearance. “There’s nothing I’d like better,” he said, “but I have work to do. There is kelp to be cut, and the tide is right. I must launch the boat.”
“A perilous voyage,” said Bart thoughtfully, gazing at the sea. “Would you consider taking me along? I need to learn about Mara Zion customs.”
Like most gnomes, Pong was a sociable fellow. Living in his isolated cave, however, he didn’t often get visitors. Occasionally a gnome would drop by to barter for edible seaweed. More often Fang would come, to bring him up-to-date on the latest happenings in gnomedom. But in general the sailorgnome’s life was a lonely one, so he was not in the habit of turning away company.
“I’d be glad of your help.” He cast a knowledgeable eye at the sea. “It looks as though it might blow up from the east, but the kelpbed’s not far offshore. We can run for shelter if the weather worsens.” He smiled at Bart, his earlier misgivings allayed. Sailing was a much less terrifying proposition when you had a crew on board.
Together they pushed out Pong’s tiny craft. It was fashioned from birchbark pegged to a willow frame and had been known to carry as many as three gnomes in reasonable safety. It had been built by Pong’s grandfather, Pew the Valiant, several hundred years ago. “We are a courageous breed,” Pew had said, staring into Pong’s eyes searchingly, “except for your father, who ran away inland soon after you were born, the coward. Look after the boat, Pong, and guard our way of life. It is your sacred trust, now that your father has deserted us.” And then he had died, leaving the echo of his words in Pong’s memory.
The boat was dry with lack of use, and consequently light. It wobbled alarmingly as Bart followed Pong aboard. Then Pong hoisted the tiny sail and they began to tack into the light onshore breeze.
Bart was watching the sky, a puzzled expression on his face. “What’s all that stuff up there?” he asked.
“Stuff?”
“Silver stuff. Like clouds, only faster.”
“Oh, that,” said Pong carelessly. “That’s just the umbra.”
“The umbra?”
“Don’t you have the umbra in Bodmin?”
“We have the umbra like you wouldn’t believe! The Bodmin umbra is the talk of Cornwall. It’s enough to rot your socks off. Giants live in it.”
“They do here too. But the level of the sea is higher in their world than ours. So what you see in the sky is the underside of their waves. You get used to it,” Pong said offhandedly, aware that Bart was impressed by the peculiar sight. He scanned the shoreline. “Look, there’s a giant now.”
Against the solid background of the cliff, a spectral figure moved. Several times the height of a gnome, it climbed over rocks as insubstantial as itself. Once it jumped back as though avoiding a ghostly wave. It bent down, picking something up and putting it into a bag. Finally it walked up the beach and disappeared into the forest.
“A giantish woman,” observed Bart. “They’re much bigger in Bodmin.”
“There’s a school of thought in the forest,” said Pong carefully, not wishing to appear stupid to this knowledgeable gnome, “that believes the umbra is getting closer.”
“Funny you should say, that. I can remember a time, oh, a couple of centuries ago, when you could hardly see the umbra at all. But these days”—Bart regarded the forest thoughtfully—”it’s as though you could almost reach out and touch the giants.”
“My friend Fang thinks the umbra will join our world soon. He knows a giant who can step from the umbra into gnomedom, just like that! Her name’s Nyneve. Fang says she’s very nice. It’s a pity the other giants aren’t like her, he says. But the Miggot—he takes care of the Sharan—he said it’s the thin end of the wedge. He says before long our world will be full of giants, fighting and breeding! It’ll be the end of gnomedom,
the Miggot says.”
If Pong had been more perceptive, he might have noticed a shrewd gleam in Bart’s eyes at the mention of the Sharan. “The Miggot, eh?” Bart said thoughtfully. “Is he pretty much of a fool, this Miggot?”
“Oh, no, Bart. He’s probably the cleverest gnome in Mara Zion. But for some reason he doesn’t like Nyneve. Nyneve says the umbra is another world, just like ours. She says it’s just a different … happentrack. That was the word she used, so Fang says.”
Bart snorted. “It’ll be a sticky end for your friend Fang, mark my words. It’s a rash gnome who fools with giants.”
The breeze fell away and the boat slid to a stop, barely rocking on the flat, bright sea. Pong had the strangest feeling that the world was waiting for something. The air felt electric, and the hairs of his beard seemed to prickle and come alive. The umbral waves thickened overhead, and an unexpected crackling made him jump. A bolt of lightning struck the sea half a mile away, raising a cloud of steam. Pong glanced at the sky fearfully. “Better get the mast down,” he muttered.
Bart was leaning forward, in the process of fixing Pong with a penetrating stare. His eyebrows bristled compellingly. “But no matter how bad things get, Pong, my new friend,” he said, “we need have no fear. The Gnome from the North will be with us.”
“The … ?”
“The Gnome from the North. Our guardian and savior. Surely you remember the legend of the gnome who came from the north, dressed all in forest green, riding a rabbit white as snow?”
“Oh, that gnome,” said Pong, baffled. “I think perhaps we should lower the sail. I don’t like the look of this.”
“When times were at their blackest, when gnomes were dying of plague and pestilence, when the crops failed and the very harvest mice turned savage, in rode the Gnome from the North, Pong.”
“On a rabbit white as snow,” repeated Pong absently, slackening the halyard. The sail came down with a rush, blanketing Bart.
“Exactly,” continued the muffled voice. “ ‘Follow me south, gnomes,’ he said, and he led the gnomes out of their sorrow and despair, to a land where the rivers flowed with honey, and the trees were heavy with golden fruit.”
“How could you keep yourself clean, if the rivers flowed with honey?” Pong jerked at the mast while lightning began to crackle closer. The umbral waves were like heavy clouds now, low and overpowering.
“It’s a legend, Pong,” shouted Bart irritably, trying to fight his way out from under the sail. “You must look for the meaning within yourself.”
“There’s a gnome in Mara Zion who says that kind of thing,” said Pong, trying to sustain the conversation from politeness, meanwhile jerking the mast from its socket and laying it lengthwise along the gunwale. “We call him Spector the Thinking Gnome. Hardly anyone can understand him.”
“Get me out from here!” shouted Bart.
“Sorry.” Pong began to tug at the sail, and soon the flushed face of Bart emerged, moldy cap awry.
“I might have suffocated under there!”
“Not with the Gnome from the North watching over you.”
Bart lurched forward and seized Pong by the front of his sweater. “Never joke about the Gnome from the North. Hard times are coming, Pong, believe me.” He stared deeply into Pong’s eyes. “Always remember the Gnome from the North will save us.”
“The Gnome from the North,” echoed Pong. It seemed the only thing to say. “Will he save me, Bart?”
“He’ll save everybody. Provided you believe in him.”
“I believe in him!” Pong dropped his voice. “Will he save me from the lopster, Bart?”
“The lopster?”
“It’s a frightful monster that inhabits these parts. It’s as big as a giant. Sometimes at night”—Pong whimpered at the memory—”I hear it sniffing around the cave. It’s never found me yet, because I sleep on a ledge out of sight. But one day it will find me, Bart, and that’s when I’m going to need the Gnome from the North.”
“He will protect you, Pong, my friend.”
“The lopster has two huge back legs and it can leap trees. Nobody stands a chance against it. Its body is plated with horny armor, and it has snappers to snap off your feet with. You know why I wear these thick boots? Because of the lopster.”
“I know that, Pong,” said Bart gently.
“Of course you do, because I’ve just told you.”
“Let’s not talk about the lopster, Pong. The Gnome from the North is watching over you at this very minute. Tell me about Mara Zion. This Fang, is he your leader?”
“Sort of. Our real leader is King Bison, because he’s got the loudest voice. But Fang always takes charge when things get tough. Fang slew the daggertooth. Fang gave us the cry.” Pong took up a paddle and began to propel the boat toward a place where kelp could be seen lying across the surface, brown and shiny.
“The cry?”
“Away, Thunderer!” shouted Pong, glad of an excuse to use the cry.
“What does it mean?”
“It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just what we shout sometimes. It makes us feel good. Spector says that’s what counts. Our perception of the cry is more important than the cry itself, Spector says. Sometimes I wish I knew what the hell Spector was talking about,” said Pong sadly. “I think Fang knows.”
“And Bison,” said Bart. “How does he feel when Fang takes charge?”
Pong considered the question carefully, and then said, “Relieved, I think. Elmera—she’s the Miggot’s wife—says Bison is not really leadership material. But, anyway, who needs leaders?”
A crafty smile played on Bart’s lips, but Pong didn’t notice. He was busy leaning over the side of the boat, slicing off kelp tips and stuffing them into a burlap bag. A light rain began to fall, developing quickly into a heavy downpour. The sun had disappeared and it had suddenly become dark. “Bugger it,” muttered Pong. He hauled the bag over the gunwale and crawled under the shelter of the sail. Bart joined him. The two gnomes crouched side by side, staring at the weather. The rain was by now so heavy that they couldn’t tell where the sky ended and the sea began. “There’s a lot of water in the boat,” observed Pong.
“Hadn’t we better make for the shore?”
“Help me drape the sail over the edges of the boat,” said Pong urgently. “It’ll stop the rain from coming in.”
But Bart had frozen into immobility. “Rain? It tastes salty to me, Pong.” His voice was shrill.
Pong glanced at him and recognized the signs. He’d seen the same look on the face of King Bison when urgent action was required. Bart was paralyzed by the magnitude of the situation. He was not going to be any help. Pong crawled around the boat, pushing the edge of the sail over the gunwales and fastening it to cleats. The sail made an ill-shaped boat cover but it was better than nothing. Pong had often used it this way and had sewn loops onto it, to hook over the cleats. Entombed in the darkness under the sail, the gnomes huddled together. Pong could feel Bart shivering.
The boat began to toss wildly, throwing them about.
“Pong,” said Bart after a while, “these voyages of yours. Have you ever met a storm like this before?”
“I could tell you tales of storms that would make your cap molt.”
“Oh, that’s all right, then. For a moment I thought this might be … unusual.”
“Unusual? Hah!” Even to his own ears, Pong’s careless laugh sounded more like a croak of despair. “This is nothing. A light chop, we sailors call it.”
The canvas suddenly sagged under the weight of water, pressing down on their heads. Bart let out a squeak of fear. Pong forced his thoughts into a positive mold. Not for nothing, he thought proudly, was he called Pong the Intrepid. This would be a story to tell his grandchildren. There we were, he rehearsed, alone on the surging waters. The mast had carried away, and Bart—my usually trusty mate from Bodmin—cowered in the bottom of the boat, utterly ungnomed by terror. And not surprisingly, for in all my years as a sailor,
I had never—
“Wah!” shouted Bart.
Pong and Bart were thrown into a heap as the boat heaved and seemed to rush upward as though rising to a mountainous wave. Water spurted in under the edges of the sail. I won’t be having any grandchildren, thought Pong, and a strange calm came over him. This is the end. It will be clean and quick. It’s better than being eaten by the lopster. Goodbye, gnomedom. Good-bye, Fang my friend. “Good-bye,” he said aloud.
The violent motion abated to a gentle rocking. A brilliant light shone through the canvas, reflecting eerily off the water in the bottom of the boat, creating stars and halos around the wet planking. The gnomes stared at each other.
“You see the light?” said Pong. “It’s the Great Grasshopper out there. Our time has come.”
“I’m not prepared for the Great Grasshopper!”
“Compose yourself, Bart.”
“I’m unworthy!” Bart babbled. “I’m not the gnome you thought I was, Pong. Oh, if only I could have my time again!”
Meanwhile Pong was unhooking the loops from the cleats. He threw the sail aside. “I’m ready!” he shouted fervently. No more would he be haunted by fear of the voracious lopster, by the necessity of living up to his name. All his troubles were over. He beamed at the sky.
The sky beamed back at him. A few puffy little clouds sidled slowly past the sun, as though scared of being evaporated. A passing gull, startled by Pong’s yell, wheeled and squawked, releasing an elongated dropping that turned slowly end over end before splashing to the sea ten feet away.
At first glance, things looked surprisingly normal again.
Bart, by now curled into a fetal ball, was hurriedly repeating the Kikihuahua Examples in the hope of being granted a second chance. “I will not kill any mortal creature. I will not work any malleable substance. I will not kindle the Wrath of Agni. Oh, Great Grasshopper,” Bart improvised, running out of traditional prayers, “I will not do any bloody thing at all, just so long as you spare me. I’ve been a treacherous and unworthy gnome!”
“It’s all right, Bart,” said Pong. “It’s all right.” The cliffs were still there, and he could see the dark entrance to his cave. The forest stood behind Mara Zion beach, and the sea was still the sea, although dirtier than usual. Bubbles and muck rose to the surface as he watched.
King of the Scepter'd Isle (Song of Earth) Page 3