King of the Scepter'd Isle (Song of Earth)

by Coney, Michael G.

  But no mythical monster straddled the boat, inviting them to the Unknown.

  Bart uncurled slightly and squinted up at Pong. “What do you mean, it’s all right?”

  “The Great Grasshopper hasn’t come for us. It was a false alarm. I think it was just a tidal wave.” In a way, thought Pong, it was quite disappointing. He unhooked the sail from the cleats and hoisted it.

  Bart scrambled onto his seat and cast an eye over the cluttered waters. “Ah, yes,” he said.

  “All the same, we’d better get ashore and pull the boat well clear. Tidal waves rarely come in ones.” Pong settled himself in the stern and set sail for the beach with a light wind behind him. “Everything’s all right,” he repeated for the benefit of Bart, who seemed to be shuddering excessively.

  “Everything’s all right,” repeated Bart woodenly, ashen-faced.

  “What did you mean, you’re not the gnome I thought you were?” asked Pong.

  “What?”

  “A while ago. You said you were unworthy.”

  “Oh, that. A moment of humility, Pong. It pays to be humble when you’re about to meet your Creator.”

  Pong was about to comment on the absence of the Gnome from the North in their hour of greatest need when, “Bart,” he said urgently, “does the water seem kind of … bright to you?”

  “No.”

  “That’s because you’re not used to being out on the sea. Usually it’s quite dull compared to the land, because—Bart!” He pointed. “Look! The umbral waves have gone! That’s the real sky up there!”

  “So it is.”

  “But that’s not … not right. What does it mean?”

  “Listen to me, Pong, I don’t care a bugger what it means. There’s something about this boat that makes me sick to my stomach, and I’d be very glad if you got us ashore.”

  “The umbral waves are always up there. It’s a fact of nature. Not many gnomes know that, not being sailors.” Pong pondered on the phenomenon as they slid toward the beach. He felt an inexplicable dread, but he concealed it from Bart. Not for nothing was he known as Pong the Intrepid.

  “Thank heavens,” muttered Bart as they carried the boat up the beach and laid it beside the entrance to Pong’s cave.

  Pong did not share his companion’s relief. His misgivings were mounting by the minute. “The sea,” he said. “Look how far up the beach it’s come.”

  “The tide’s in, Pong. I thought you sailors knew all about tides.”

  “The tide never comes this high.”

  “Of course it does, Pong. There it is, see? That proves it.”

  “Come on, Bart. We must go and see Fang. There’s something strange going on around here.”

  “I don’t have a rabbit.”

  “Then we’ll have to walk. It’s only a couple of miles.”

  The gnomes made their way along the base of the cliff. Soon they reached another beach; and this time it was Bart who first noticed the change. “The trees, Pong. Look!”

  Cliffs tend to be cliffs on whatever happentrack they exist. They do not differ perceptibly from one world to the next, except perhaps where a rock has fallen in one happentrack but is merely unstable in another.

  But the umbra was always very noticeable in the forest. A tree, growing tall and straight in one happentrack, might never have existed in another, particularly if the branching of happentracks had occurred a long time ago.

  For millennia past, the gnomes of Mara Zion had seen two forests. One they lived in. The other was a shadowy thing inhabited by giants, just a happentrack away but faintly visible nonetheless.

  But now the shadows had disappeared and they saw one forest, one happentrack, one world.

  “The umbra’s gone here too,” said Pong. “What does it mean?”

  They found out soon enough.

  “Hah! Piskeys!” came a roaring shout that seemed to vibrate through their very flesh. “I can see you!”

  They swung around. A huge figure was scrambling clumsily down a cleft in the cliff. It jumped to the ground, and the beach shook. It ran swiftly toward them, with gigantic strides.

  “Into the forest!” cried Pong.

  Bart was already on his way, moving quickly with the characteristic gnomish scuttle. They darted into the undergrowth, Bart in the lead. Luckily they picked up a rabbit track almost immediately and followed it, hearing the crash of pursuit nearby.

  “Come back here, you little piskeys! You can’t get away from me.” Heedless of obstacles, the giant plunged after them.

  “North, Bart!” cried Pong. “Head north!”

  “Which way is north?” Bart shouted over his shoulder, meanwhile rushing past a fork in the trail.

  “The other way!”

  Bart stopped abruptly. Pong crashed into him as he was in the act of turning. Bart grabbed Pong to steady himself. The sound of pursuit approached. Bart, paralyzed with fear, hugged pong close.

  “Let me go!” An appalling thought occurred to Pong. Bart was a spy, in the pay of the giants. That explained the shifty look. “Let me go, you bugger!” yelled Pong, prepared to sell his life dearly. Overbalancing, the gnomes toppled to the ground, grappling. It seemed to Pong that Bart’s face wore an expression of cunning and ferocity.

  Bart meanwhile had decided Pong had been trying to lead him into some kind of a trap. Throughout Cornwall, Mara Zion gnomes were known to be untrustworthy and resentful of strangers. What better way to dispose of a stranger than to lure him into the hands of the giants? And here was Pong, pummeling him with his fists as they rolled in the dirt. “No way!” shouted Bart, rolling away, jumping to his feet and scampering along the path of his original choice, which led east. He was not surprised to hear Pong’s footsteps close behind, and it seemed he could feel Pong’s breath hot on his very neck.

  In silence, the gnomes raced through the forest while the roars of giantish pursuit faded and finally ceased.

  Pong ran in an agony of remorse. Belatedly, he’d recognized Bart’s terror for what it was. How could he have been so mistrustful as to have suspected this excellent gnome from Bodmin? And now the frightened fellow was running along the path that led straight to the giants’ village.

  It was Pong’s duty to save Bart. “Stop!” he shouted.

  This caused Bart to put on more speed. “Go away!” he cried.

  Despairing of making Bart see reason, Pong flung himself full length, grabbed Bart’s legs, and brought him crashing to the ground. “You’re heading for the giants’ village, Bart,” he explained breathlessly. “Don’t you understand, they can see us now? It’s all happened just like Fang said it would. We’re living in the same world as the giants!”

  Bart was silent.

  Assuming the Bodmin gnome was having difficulty understanding what might be a local phenomenon, Pong continued, “It’s been coming on for some time. The umbra seemed to be getting clearer, if you know what I mean. And then a few days ago, Fang actually heard two giants talking. But nobody would believe him, except me,” said Pong proudly, “because I’m his friend. And possibly the Miggot believed him,” he added in the interests of truth.

  It seemed to Pong that some reply would have been in order, but Bart offered none. Had fear ungnomed him again? Pong stood, regarding the motionless figure in pity. “Buck up, Bart,” he said.

  Then he saw the rock under Bart’s head, and the trickle of blood. “Oh, by the Sword of Agni,” he whispered. “What have I done?”

  He knelt beside Bart and gently lifted his head. The red cap was wet with blood around the rim. He eased it off and saw the ugly cut on Bart’s forehead, near the hairline. The skin was darkening around the cut, and a lump was developing.

  Pong replaced the cap. It would help to stanch the flow of blood. And in any case, it was a bad omen for Bart to be without his emblem of gnomehood. For a while Pong knelt there, consumed with guilt, then it occurred to him that this forest path was probably frequented by giants. He must get Bart out of sight. More, he must get Bart
attended to.

  Furthermore, he suddenly noticed a clump of cheesecups lurking at the side of the path, each plant taller than a gnome, waving menacingly. Their tubular flowers were a favorite haunt of the sluglike doodad—a particularly unpleasant gnomish creature. Doodads latched on to you and injected a fluid that turned you into a bag of soup. Then they sucked you dry. They had tremendous sucking capabilities, doodads did. Their skin was infinitely expandable. On Pong’s list of gnomedom’s most fearsome creatures, they ranked second only to the lopster.

  And one was sticking its pale, blind face from a cheese-cup now. The cup trembled as the doodad tensed itself for a leap.

  Hastily Pong dragged Bart out of leaping range and into the bush. The horrible creature plopped to the ground and slid around for a moment or two, then climbed back up the stem, disappointed. Pong deliberated his next move.

  Like most such settlements, Mara Zion gnomedom had its healer: a gnome called Wal o’ the Bottle. Wal was the latest in a long line of hereditary healers, although some said the strain had weakened over the centuries. Certainly Bottle’s patients rarely got better. But then they rarely got worse, gnomes having excellent constitutions. Pong was not sure where Bottle lived, but Fang would know. Hoisting Bart onto his back, he plodded back the way they’d come.

  The pattern of forest paths seemed to have changed since yesterday, with odd forks and intersections that Pong didn’t recall having seen before. Eventually, however, he came to a familiar circle of mushrooms. Fang had once shown him this place and told him it was some kind of a gateway between giantdom and gnomedom. Nyneve, the friendly giant, used it to get from one world to the other.

  Having got his bearings, Pong walked on. Gnomes are physically much stronger than humans in proportion to their size, so Bart did not represent an undue burden. Before long, Pong reached Fang’s dwelling.

  Except that Fang’s dwelling wasn’t there.

  At first he thought he’d come to the wrong place. Alarmed, he examined the nearby trees. They were not the trees he remembered. In particular the giant lurch, beneath whose roots Fang’s home had nestled, was nowhere to be seen. In fact, Pong realized, he hadn’t seen a lurch tree anywhere in the forest today.

  And yet it had to be the place. There was a moss-clothed granite boulder beside the path, facing south. He and Fang had sat with their backs against it many times, enjoying the sun through the trees. And the little stream where Fang dipped his water flowed nearby, as before. But the lurch was gone, and in its place stood an elm. He could see the dark entrance to a cave where the roots of the elm clutched at the ground, but it was not Fang’s cave. As the dread began to grow within him, he felt the ancient gnomish instinct to crawl into the nearest hole. So he crawled among the roots of the elm, dragging Bart after him. After a while, exhausted from the excitements of the day, he fell asleep.

  When he awakened, it was dark and the forest was alive with night sounds. A soft wind breathed into the cave, bringing unfamiliar smells. Pong wished he was back home where he knew the smells and could identify them. Any one of these sudden warm whiffs could be a gnome-eating animal. Even the lopster was better than this. Shivering, he huddled up against Bart, who seemed to be breathing more easily.

  Bart awakened with a start. “Is that you, Pong? What happened? I have a terrible headache.”

  “You tripped and hit your head on a rock.”

  “I did?” It seemed to Pong that Bart shot him a glance of the deepest suspicion; but it could have been the distorting effect of the moonlight slanting across the cave. “Where are we now?”

  “I don’t know,” said Pong miserably. “Fang’s home’s gone. I’ve been thinking about it, and I don’t think gnomedom exists anymore. The Miggot always said this was going to happen. We’re in a different world, Bart. It’s the giant’s world, and I’m not sure there’s any place for gnomes in it.”

  “You’d better go and take a look around!”

  “In the middle of the night? It’s dangerous out there, Bart!”

  “On the contrary, it’s safer. The giants will all be asleep.”

  Outvoted, Pong climbed to his feet and stumbled out into the moonlight. A short walk confirmed his suspicions. None of the nearby gnomish dwellings existed anymore. He visited the site of King Bison’s home, and Clubfoot Trimble’s, and the hollow log that the Mara Zion gnomes had used as a meeting place. Everything was changed. Not a gnome was in sight. Finally he climbed to the top of the western ridge, where the forest gave way to rocks and scrub, and looked across the valley. There had been a stream down there. The Princess of the Willow Tree, Fang’s girl, had lived in a riverbank burrow. And farther south, where the meadows gave way to marsh, Fang’s father, the Gooligog, had lurked in his unsavory tunnel. And now—

  And now a wide expanse of water glittered strangely in the moonlight. The valley was a bay, and the gnomes’ dwellings were drowned.

  Strangest of all, there was only one moon in the sky, hard-edged and brilliant. Misty Moon and Maybe Moon were gone. The night sky looked unfamiliar, unnatural.

  And the gnomes themselves? It didn’t bear thinking about. In tears, Pong stumbled back to the cave.

  “Everybody’s gone, Bart! Except the giants, and now they can see us, and before long they’ll catch us. Do you know what they’ll do then, Bart? They’ll push spits through us and roast us. That’s what giants do in Mara Zion.”

  “In Bodmin,” said Bart, eyes wide with fear, “they lay metal plates on fires and make gnomes dance on them while they slowly fry from the feet up.”

  “Oh, how I wish the Gnome from the North would come!” wailed Pong.

  “And then they sprinkle them with herbs, and pour wine on them, and season to taste.”

  “And snatch us up onto the back of his snow-white rabbit and ride off with us to a far better place than this!”

  “I’m wondering if the situation hasn’t gotten a bit beyond the powers of the Gnome from the North, Pong,” said Bart.

  “Nothing is beyond his powers,” said the new convert piously. And it said much for his faith that, as the first faint light of morning chased away the moonlight, they heard the thumping gait of an approaching rabbit.

  “Here he is!” shouted Pong, awakening from a light doze and jumping to his feet.

  “Who’s that?” came a shout. “Are there gnomes there?”

  “It’s Pong the Intrepid and Bart o’ Bodmin! Take us!”

  “Don’t be silly. How can one rabbit carry three gnomes?”

  Pong swung around to address Bart. “The Gnome from the North says he can’t take us all. What’s the answer to that, Bart?”

  “The answer is that it’s not the Gnome from the North, Pong.”

  Pong confronted the newcomer who jumped to the ground and advanced out of the gloom. “Jack! What’s happened to gnomedom? Where is everyone?”

  Jack o’ the Warren was disheveled, his cap at a desperate angle. “Everybody’s been captured by the giants! The last I saw of them, they were being taken toward the Lake of Avalon by a giant called Galahad. I followed at a safe distance, then I thought I’d better come back and see if I could find anybody else. Who is this Bart o’ Bodmin, anyway?”

  Bart emerged from the cave, bowed gravely, and introduced himself. The gnomes clasped hands.

  “What are we going to do now, Jack?” asked Pong.

  “There’s only one thing to do. We must go to the lake and try to rescue Fang and the others.”

  “From the giants?”

  “We would be neglecting our duty if we didn’t at least try.”

  “You’re right.” Pong concealed a gulp of fear by clearing his throat, then said, “Bring us two of your finest rabbits, Jack, and we’ll be on our way.” And surprisingly, his spirits began to rise at the thought of a new purpose.

  “Rabbits?”

  “To ride on. You have a string of good riding stock. I wouldn’t go to anyone else for a rabbit.”

  Jack sighed. “I’ve given the mat
ter a lot of thought, Pong, and I’ve decided I’m going to come clean. I’m going to tell one gnome the truth, and that gnome is you. I have to share the burden I’ve carried all these years, but it must go no further than you, Pong.”

  “But Bart’s here. He’ll share your burden too.”

  “That’s all right, because Bart was never deceived by the bogus rabbits.”

  “What bogus rabbits are you talking about, Jack?”

  “The rabbits I never had,” said Jack o’ the Warren sadly.

  “But your string of riding rabbits was famous throughout gnomedom!” cried Pong.

  “Their fame was undeserved. I never had any rabbits. I never kept them in a fenced compound safe from moon-dogs, and I never bred them, carefully selecting the fastest and strongest as instructed by the Miggot. It was all a big lie. Oh!” cried Jack happily. “You don’t know how good it makes me feel, to tell someone this. I’m free at last. I’m going to tell people my rabbits disappeared along with gnomedom as we knew it, Pong, and I’m trusting you to do the same. And you, Bart.”

  “Of course.” Pong stared at Jack, bewildered. Another part of gnomedom was gone. The Warren string of riding rabbits had turned out to be a phantom existing only in the minds of gnomes. Was nothing real anymore? The riding rabbits were part of gnomish history. They had been committed to memory by the Gooligog, the gnomish Memorizer. The great Thunderer, Fang’s rabbit who had been a leading figure in the Slaying of the Daggertooth, had supposedly been bred by Jack. Was Thunderer real, or was the whole episode of the Daggertooth another myth? “What rabbits have we been riding all these years?” he asked.

  “When anyone’s needed a rabbit, I’ve always given them my own. And then I’ve gone out and trapped one for myself, and trained it. Have you ever tried to train a rabbit? They don’t want to be trained, you know. Not really. I bear many scars.”

  “But … why?” asked Pong helplessly. “How did this all happen? Everybody thought you had rabbits.”