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

by Coney, Michael G.

  “If you eliminate the human factor, it will be one hundred percent!”

  “It will not. Other dangers will arise.”

  “How do you know, if you haven’t forecast the effects of an Earth free of humans?”

  “Morgan, sit down. You, too, Merlin. Let’s combine our skills instead of arguing. And let me remind you of the purpose of our existence.”

  Nyneve, forgotten by the immortals, sat quietly in her corner and listened with fascination and no little dread.

  “I don’t need you telling me our purpose. I need action,” said Morgan le Fay. She was still standing, and her black clothes seemed to suck from the room what little light there was. Only her face was pale, waxen; her mouth a scarlet wound.

  “When Starquin saw this planet,” said Avalona, ignoring her remark, “he scanned the ifalong and foresaw the evolution of an intelligent race. So he sent down the Dedos to witness events. He was interested, Morgan. Our corporate entity is an inquisitive being. What else is there for him, except to become inquisitive about the Universe? He was interested in how the humans would develop, and in what would happen next. Intelligent life is rare.

  “So we do not wipe it out in a moment of panic. That would remove the purpose of a few millennia of Starquin’s existence. That would be an intolerable waste.”

  “If Starquin wants to know what happens to the humans,” Merlin piped up, “all he has to do is scan the ifalong.”

  “Merlin,” said Avalona in flat tones, “you are an old fool and you have outlived any usefulness you might once have had. I can foresee the time when it will be necessary to disincorporate you. I thought I had you safely out of the way for the next thirty thousand years, but now my sister has seen fit to release you. The ifalong has become complicated by your continued presence and by the arrival of my sister, and Starquin no longer has reliable data. Nobody has. The matter must be simplified.”

  “By eliminating the humans,” said Morgan le Fay.

  “By eliminating you and Merlin, perhaps,” said Avalona.

  The three immortals stared at each other. A hunting owl hooted once, and there was a tiny scream from outside. Some lives were cheap, others more durable.

  “By eliminating you, perhaps!” screeched Merlin, emboldened by the presence of Morgan, whom he regarded as an ally. Then, terrified at what he’d said, he fell silent with his knuckles to his mouth, staring wide-eyed at the fire, toothless gums munching.

  Morgan le Fay said, “This is silly human talk, Avalona. We both have Rocks to guard. For one of us to eliminate the other would mean deliberately provoking a failure of duty.”

  “But we must weigh the possible consequences of that against the known consequences of precipitate action against the humans.”

  “You will agree, though, that the ifalong is subject to different interpretations.”

  Avalona stared at her coldly. “I am never wrong.”

  “Wrong or right may not be the point.”

  And the discussion continued far into the night. Nyneve fell asleep in her chair, taking into her dreams a curious elation. Avalona was not perfect. Her omniscience had been challenged by one equally as great as she. The ifalong—the composite future of all happentracks—could be a matter of opinion. Little things could be changed. …

  The plan came into her mind full-grown, sometime during that night.

  One fine morning a few weeks later, Governayle was riding through the forest on his way to the beach. Trotting beside him were his two dogs, Snapper and Sniffer. The young man sang softly to himself, happy because all appeared to be well in Mara Zion, and because he had arranged to meet Nancy Weaver in the dell at the back of the beach. Nancy was a big girl, well versed in the arts of love. The morning promised to be a pleasant one.

  It was Sniffer who made the discovery.

  Governayle was already thinking it had perhaps been a mistake to bring the dogs. He loved his animals dearly, but there was no doubt they could be a disadvantage at a lovers’ tryst. Snapper and Sniffer were big and clumsy, and had a bad habit of treading all over anyone lying down and licking them.

  And now Sniffer had disappeared into the bush, following some intriguing scent. Scents could occupy that dog for hours.

  “Sniffer!” called Governayle, exasperated. The bush was thick hereabouts. He dismounted and plunged in pursuit.

  A deer trail indicated the route the dog had taken. Governayle followed, bending low. Soon the trail widened into a clearing. It was an unknown place, bypassed by the well-worn paths to the beach. Two tall oaks shaded a rocky cliff.

  “What on earth … ?” exclaimed Governayle.

  Short grass grew in the clearing. The sunlight, striking through the leaves of the oak, tinted the grass a bright emerald. The sunlight fell also on a sword of crude workmanship, apparently embedded in a heavy black anvil. The anvil sat squarely on a large boulder.

  In itself, the sight was so remarkable that Governayle missed the implications. He hurried forward and grasped the carved handle, which projected at chest height. He pulled, but the sword remained where it was. He walked around the boulder, examining it. It was approximately square, and marks of chisels could be seen on its surface. The anvil was an ordinary piece of blacksmith’s equipment; there was one in the village just like it. Except that this anvil had a slot in the top, through which the sword passed. Governayle tried waggling the sword. It was a good fit in the slot, but not a tight one. He could rattle it from side to side, but he couldn’t pull it out. He concluded that the tip was stuck in the boulder itself.

  “Governayle!”

  He wheeled around with an abashed smile, preparing to face Nancy’s accusation that he enjoyed a mystery more than her loving. But it wasn’t Nancy. This girl was more beautiful than Nancy, but she was also more aloof.

  “Hello, Nyneve,” he replied

  “What do you make of this, then?”

  “I don’t know what to make of it,” he admitted. “It’s a poorly made sword, but why would anyone want to stick it in this rock?”

  “Well, obviously, it’s the Sword in the Stone,” said Nyneve with a hint of asperity.

  “I can see it’s a sword in a stone.”

  “No, I mean the Sword in the Stone. The sword that Arthur pulls out.”

  He stared at her. “Why would you think that?”

  “Well, what else could it be?”

  “Arthur’s sword was just one of your stories, Nyneve. And a good one too. But why should you think this sword is connected with that one? This could be any old sword stuck in any old rock. For all I know, swords could be stuck in rocks all over England. It could be a secret part of the manufacturing process, to temper them.”

  Nyneve felt herself flush with irritation. After all her work of the past weeks, she’d expected a more positive reaction than this. “I wish you wouldn’t keep calling it a rock. It’s a stone. It’s the Stone. Haven’t you seen the inscription on it? Come on. Take a look around the other side.”

  Governayle followed her. Sure enough, there were words engraved in the anvil that he hadn’t noticed previously. Nyneve read them aloud.

  “WHOSO PULLETH OUTE THIS SWERD OF THIS STONE AND ANVYLD IS RIGHTWYS KYNGE BORNE OF ALL BRETAGNE.”

  “Is that what it says?”

  “Can’t you read?” An appalled suspicion grew in her.

  “Not very well,” he admitted. “Not well enough to read all that stuff, anyway.”

  “Can anyone in the village read?”

  “Well, you used to live there before you moved in with the old witch,” he said, getting annoyed. “Did you see much reading going on?”

  “I suppose not.” Nyneve had been taught by Avalona. It had never occurred to her that the villagers might not be able to read the inscription. The legend had never mentioned this problem. In the legend, people had taken in the inscription at a glance and marveled. Governayle showed no sign of marveling. And yet, according to Avalona, that legend was a real event on a different happentr
ack. For an instant Nyneve had a weird feeling of disorientation. Was she creating the legend, or was she imitating it?

  By mid-morning a small crowd had gathered around the sword in the stone. Torre was there, and Palomides, and other Mara Zion notables. They all gazed at the inscription uncomprehendingly.

  “But that’s just what you tell us, Nyneve,” said Torre in reasonable tones, after Nyneve had read the words aloud for the tenth time. “And you seem to have a vested interest in this fellow Arthur’s success. And come to think of it, we don’t even have any proof his name is Arthur. Nobody knows him. His name could be Albert, for all we know. He could be deceiving us all.”

  “And for all we know,” added Ned Palomides, “the inscription could read WHOSO PULLETH OUTE THIS SWERD OF THIS STONE AND ANVYLD SHOULD STRAIGHTWYS BE HANGED FROM YE CLOSEBYE OAKE.”

  “Or it could be directions for a new kind of pump.” Torre eyed the sword critically. “Perhaps it’s not meant to be a sword at all. Perhaps it’s just a handle, to be pumped up and down.” He tried to work the handle and failed. “And then again, perhaps not.”

  “Here comes Albert,” said Palomides.

  The pretender to the throne emerged from the forest, whistling cheerfully, hands in his pockets, his recently acquired lurcher Bull’s-eye at his heels. Nyneve’s heart leapt at the sight of him. Treacherously, and at the same moment, she found herself wishing he looked a little more kingly. Mounted on a white steed, perhaps, dressed in glittering chain mail and carrying a shield bearing a royal device. Clearly she needed to do some work on him.

  “What’s going on here, then?” he asked.

  Palomides explained. “It’s the Sword in the Stone, Arthur. This is your big moment. Pull the bugger out and you’ll be king of England!”

  Nyneve stepped quickly in front of Arthur. “Don’t even try. This isn’t the right time.” He could ruin the whole plan. She should have taken him into her confidence, but she’d had the feeling he wouldn’t go along with what she proposed. Sometimes Arthur’s naïveté and honesty could be a drawback.

  “If you say so, Nyneve.” Arthur regarded the sword curiously.

  Torre said, “It’s not that sword, Arthur. It can’t be. Pay no attention to Palomides, he’s just pulling your leg. If it was the real Sword in the Stone, this would be London, and there’d be moonbeams shining on it and angels singing and all kinds of stuff like that. You’d hardly get the Sword in the Stone in some muddy little glade in Mara Zion.”

  “It is the real Sword,” insisted Nyneve. “And one day Arthur will pull it out. But not now.” She felt like crying. Everything had gone wrong. Governayle’s discovery of the sword had been premature; she’d thought it was well hidden.

  She was saved further explanations by the jingling arrival of Sir Mador de la Porte on splendid horseback. Despite an ignominious defeat by Tristan a few months previously, Sir Mador’s career had progressed by leaps and bounds. Following the recent death of Tristan, he had been appointed Knight of the Southern Realm, which meant that he represented Baron Menheniot’s interests in Mara Zion and neighboring settlements. He was not a popular figure with the villagers. They suspected he intended to exact a regular tribute from the village, and was only awaiting the right moment to do it.

  “Whoa!” he roared to his horse. “What goes on here?” he asked.

  They explained. Sir Mador had heard the legend of Arthur; furthermore, he could read. Dismounting, he examined the inscription, his lips moving silently. Then he examined the sword, assessing his chances. “Yes,” he said at last. “It seems to be the right sword.” He laid a huge, mailed hand on it and tugged. The Sword remained firmly in place.

  “We’ve all tried,” said Torre. “Nobody can pull it out.”

  “Arthur hasn’t tried,” said Palomides craftily.

  Sir Mador swept Arthur with an imperious stare. “Ha, the stranger we’ve been hearing about. Try your luck, Pretender.”

  “I don’t see why not,” said Arthur, who’d been annoyed at being left out of things.

  “No,” said Nyneve.

  Ignoring her, Arthur stepped up to the Sword. Despite their skepticism, the onlookers held their breath. There was certainly something deeply impressive about this tall figure that his simple peasant clothing could not conceal. And as Arthur laid his hand on the haft, the sun, which had been hiding behind a thick white cloud, chose that moment to emerge in all its glory. The dell came alive and Arthur was suddenly godlike, his hair a golden corona.

  He pulled.

  The sword remained firmly in place.

  Bracing a foot against the anvil, he pulled again. A little bead of sweat trickled down his brow.

  Nothing happened.

  “Oh, bugger the thing!” he cried.

  “I told you not to try,” said Nyneve, tears in her eyes.

  “Yes, it’s all very well to say that now,” Arthur began angrily. Then he became aware of his grinning audience, swung on his heel, and strode away into the forest, Bull’s-eye slinking behind.

  “That’s the end of him,” said Sir Mador. “His credibility is shot, if he ever had any. I hope we’ve seen the last of the pretenders out of Mara Zion. Tristan got his just desserts, and now Arthur’s moment of glory is over, such as it was.” He examined the faces of the villagers. “Which of you peasants will try next? You, Torre? No, I don’t think so.” He turned to Nyneve. “I must congratulate you on your plan. You laid the groundwork very well with those stories of yours. You had us all believing in King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table, but when it came to picking your real-life Arthur, everything fell apart. Face it, Nyneve, nobody can live up to those stories. The Baron will get a laugh out of this.”

  During his short speech, a surprising change had come over his audience. “The Baron may laugh too soon,” said Governayle.

  “I didn’t see you pulling the sword out, Sir Mador de la Porte!” said Torre angrily. “At least Arthur bears an honorable name. What bloody Porte are you Sir Mador de, anyway?”

  “It is a hereditary title,” explained Sir Mador with dignity, “and the location of the Porte is lost in antiquity. Some say it refers to the gates of heaven.”

  “Or perhaps the door to the privy. Whatever it is, it’s French. And that’s only a short step from being Irish!”

  Surprisingly Sir Mador brushed the insult aside with a tolerant smile. “You should brush up on your geography, Torre. Meanwhile I’ll ride to Menheniot and tell the Baron about the Sword in the Stone. Somewhere in Cornwall there may well be a man capable of pulling it out. But I don’t think so. Anyway, it will give us the chance for a feast!”

  Word of the existence of the Sword in the Stone spread quickly through the southwest of England and was greeted with huge excitement. The legend of Arthur was a popular one. The majority of the people lived under the rule of local landowners and dreamed of the day when a new and just leader would arise; dispossess the barons, earls, and dukes; give each peasant a plot of land; and protect their womenfolk from licentious collectors of fealty. It was a beautiful dream, and the legend of Arthur put it into simple language.

  And now a sword in a stone had appeared, in a magical forest rumored to be inhabited by monsters, unicorns, and gnomes. It couldn’t have happened in a better place.

  The people flocked to Mara Zion. …

  Tents hung from spreading branches and families camped under them. The status of a person was in inverse proportion to his distance from the Sword in the Stone, which was now covered by a purple pavilion. Around it stood the pavilions of the gentry, including Baron Menheniot. In a broad concentric circle outside hung the tents of the soldiers. Farther away, and spreading off fingerlike along the banks of the streams, were the peasants’ tents. Food was prepared on a community basis, and a constant stream of supply carts rolled in from distant towns. Old acquaintances met for the first time in years, and children and dogs gamboled around their feet.

  The gnomes stayed away, huddled in their new and partly c
ompleted dwellings.

  “The amount of breeding going on in those tents boggles my mind,” grumbled King Bison, just returned from a short foraging trip.

  “Arthur will soon put a stop to that kind of nonsense!” cried Lady Duck confidently. “Mark my words, Bison, if Nyneve’s scheme comes off, it’ll be a great day for gnomedom!”

  Nyneve herself had persuaded Arthur to set up camp as close to the Sword as possible, in preparation for the great moment when he would stride from his tent, grasp the haft, and, amid yells of astonishment and approbation, draw the Sword from the stone with a flourish.

  “It didn’t happen like that last time,” said Arthur.

  “The time was not ripe. The audience wasn’t assembled, don’t you see? If you’d pulled the Sword out in front of a handful of villagers and Sir Mador de la Thing, the news would have been suppressed.” She regarded him speculatively. Should she tell him the truth? No. He was a painfully honest man, and would never agree to trickery. Sometimes she found herself wishing he were a little more ruthless in his pursuit of the Crown. …

  A heavy body blundered into the tent, bulging the fabric. Someone uttered a hoarse yell. “I wish I was back on the other side of the forest with the gnomes,” said Arthur gloomily. It was evening, and a light drizzle dampened the tent. Sounds of revelry came from all around.

  “Your place is among the common people,” Nyneve said, reproving him.

  “Well, you can’t get much more common than this.” The tent was small, thrown over the branch of a sycamore, and weighted around with rocks. Broad leaves hung from the branch inside the tent. There was barely room for the two of them. Arthur lay with his back against the bole, and Nyneve sat opposite, her hands clasped around her knees. “Nyneve,” said Arthur after a long silence, “I wish I knew what was going on. I wish I could remember something, anything, about my life before I woke up in that boat. You keep telling me I’m the reincarnation of some legend—and that I’m ‘destined for greatness,’ as you put it. Well, I’ve got to tell you this. I don’t feel destined.”