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

by Coney, Michael G.

  Fang laughed, too, and kissed her. They clung together for a while. “Come on,” he said at last. “We’d better not keep them waiting too long, or you know what they’ll think.”

  When they reached the blasted oak, they found the others were already thinking it. Rows of gnomes sat on the blackened roots, and a large number of rabbits could be seen among the trees. It seemed that messengers had ridden the forest paths, rounding up most of the gnomes in Mara Zion. Broyle the Blaze had kindled the Wrath of Agni, and the merry dance of flames reflected from bright eyes and simple jewelry. There must have been almost a hundred gnomes there, being harangued by Lady Duck.

  “ … wallowing in the responses of unnatural instincts and perverted flesh,” she was shouting, amid groans of horror from the assembly. “Oh, it’s you, Fang,” she said more quietly. “Take a seat. You understand there’s nothing personal in all this, of course.”

  “In all what?” asked Fang innocently.

  “In my assassination of your character. It’s expected on these occasions, and it rarely results in grudges being harbored. The main thing is to retain your dignity and not be goaded into retaliation.”

  “I don’t have the heart to say anything against Bison.”

  “And then there is this Princess!” roared Lady Duck, satisfied. “We all know what she is. She is the spawn of two foul gnomes, infected with the poisons of the wild wart, who have since been banished to opposite reaches of the land!”

  “Argh!” shouted the gnomes in disgust.

  “Actually,” said the Princess in clear tones, “they both went in the same direction.”

  “By the Great Grasshopper!” cried Lady Duck. “Is there no limit to their shame?”

  The Miggot stamped forward, a squat, furious figure. “You all know me,” he snarled, “and I’ll bet none of you likes me. And that’s fine, because I’m not too bloody fond of you, either. And why is that? Because you’re fools, and I can’t stand fools. You know what’s happening here? You’re being duped into dumping the best leader you ever had, and electing a failed has-been who’s already proved he can’t lead a rabbit to a dandelion!”

  This was the first overt mention of the purpose of the meeting, and Lady Duck took it up. “Bison is fit and ready to take up any duties this gathering may entrust to him!” she cried. “Bison is a giant refreshed! Tell them, Bison!”

  Bison’s eye rolled like a spooked horse as he cast around for words suited to the occasion. “I am a giant refreshed!” he boomed finally. “That is not to say”—he dropped his voice to more normal tones—”a giant in the sense of a human, if you know what I mean. I wouldn’t want you to think—”

  The Miggot cut him short. “And all because of a minor disorder. In any other species, it wouldn’t be looked on as a disorder at all!”

  “Minor disorder, Miggot?” thundered Lady Duck.

  “Fang’s little sexual dysfunction. It—”

  “Dysfunction? Dysfunction, you call it? He functions too bloody well, that’s his problem!” screeched the Gooligog. “Filthy young bugger!”

  “Do we blame Clubfoot for being clumsy?” yelled the Miggot furiously. “Do we blame Lady Duck for her voice? Do we blame Pong for being intrepid?”

  “Being intrepid is good, isn’t it?” asked Bison, puzzled.

  “Well, all right, then. Do we blame the Gooligog for his foul temper?”

  “Of course we do!” cried Elmera. “The Gooligog is a pain in the ass, and his son is going the same way—mark my words!”

  “Fang,” said the Miggot wearily, “don’t you have anything to say?”

  “Not really, Miggot. I think they’ve made up their minds.”

  “Bison! Bison!” came the roar from a hundred throats.

  “Bugger the lot of them, that’s all I can say,” muttered the Miggot.

  It was dark and the forest leaves were rustling to a cold night wind by the time Nyneve arrived at the village. A huge pit fire had been lit the day before, and an ox (or to be honest, a cow recently savaged by wolves and deemed incurable) had been roasting for many hours. A noisy party was in progress, with beer and wine flowing freely from kegs set up on the other side of the green. The Baron’s men were still there, getting to know the village girls to the obvious annoyance of Mara Zion’s young men, but the inevitable fighting had not yet taken place.

  Much to her relief, Nyneve caught sight of Margawse at a long table near the fire pit, attended by Baron Menheniot. It seemed her legendary charms had not captured Arthur. The story must be wrong, she thought. And if this part is wrong, then perhaps the rest of it is just as unreliable. Including the part about Guinevere. …

  The same thought seemed to have occurred to the Baron. As Nyneve joined them, he asked Margawse, “Have the chivalry stories reached your part of the world yet, my lady?”

  Margawse laughed, a jolly sound. “Oh, yes. I’m quite flattered. I never thought I’d be the kind of woman to play an important role in a saga! What a pity that kind of thing never happens in real life.”

  “Nyneve invented the stories,” said the Baron, grinning.

  “I … I didn’t exactly invent them,” Nyneve said, stammering. “They just kind of happened. And I honestly don’t know how you got into them, my lady. I thought most of the story-people were imaginary.”

  “Nyneve’s a witch,” said the Baron with conviction.

  “I’m just a village girl, really. My foster mother, Avalona, has the powers.”

  “Where is that old hag, by the way?”

  “At the cottage with Merlin, I expect.”

  “I doubt it. Merlin’s here, licking his wounds. I had the old fool thrashed, and he’s lucky I didn’t hang him.”

  “You thrashed Merlin? But he has powers too!”

  “Not strong enough to protect his back, I fear. You’d better take him home.”

  “But what … what did he do?”

  “You must ask him that. I don’t want to talk about it.” The recollection seemed to have put the Baron in a bad humor. “And if you run into Arthur, for God’s sake pry him away from that Morgan woman. I’ve had a treaty drawn up between Menheniot and Mara Zion, and I need his mark on it. At least some good’s come out of this day’s work.”

  “Arthur’s with Morgan le Fay?” A vague misgiving took hold of Nyneve. “Where did they go?”

  “I don’t know.” The Baron eyed her speculatively, obviously regretting his obligations to Queen Margawse. “Well, if you must leave us … Ask Merlin. He should know everything, if he has the powers you credit him with.”

  She found Merlin sitting under a tree at the edge of the forest, watching the festivities from a safe distance. He looked so disconsolate that she was moved to pity, and for a moment put aside her own worries. “Merlin! What happened?”

  “That barbarian of a Baron had me whipped!”

  “Why would he do a thing like that?”

  The old Paragon snuffled miserably. “It wasn’t my fault. The circumstances were beyond my control. But he wouldn’t listen.” Rheumy old eyes met Nyneve’s, then looked away again. “Sir Bors de Ganis died,” he mumbled. “The Baron held me responsible.”

  “How terrible! How did it happen? I thought Sir Bors was just cut up a bit.”

  “He was. But the leeches killed him. You’ve no idea what a ghastly experience I had, Nyneve. Although,” admitted Merlin, “it was probably worse for Bors. After I’d treated him I forgot about him for a while. The excitement of the tournament, you understand? When I finally went back to the tent we’d rigged around him, he was gone. Or at least, I thought he’d gone. It was getting dark, and my eyes aren’t what they were. I’m getting old, Nyneve.”

  “You’ve been getting old for the last few thousand years,” said Nyneve, becoming impatient. “Get on with the story, Merlin.”

  Sniffing, he resumed. “I noticed a kind of pale cloth on the ground, and I saw the outline of Bors under it. I thought somebody had put a sheet over him, to keep him warm. So I took
hold of it and pulled.” He groaned, shuddering. “But it wasn’t a cloth. It was Bors himself—just his skin like a bag, with the bones rattling about inside. The leeches had sucked him dry!”

  She stared at him. “How could leeches do that?”

  “They must have injected him with some kind of solvent and let it sit for a while, then sucked all the nourishment out of him.”

  “You’re thinking of spiders.”

  “They were leeches! You think I don’t know the difference?”

  “Perhaps they were something that looked very like leeches. Something from the gnomes’ world. But even if they were, how could tiny little things like that suck a man dry?”

  “Exactly what I asked myself!” said Merlin eagerly. “But then I thought of something else, and it made my blood run cold, I can tell you. Those leeches may have been tiny little things when I applied them to Bors, but they surely wouldn’t be tiny little things anymore. They would be great big thriving things, their appetites whetted!”

  He shivered at the memory. “I’ve never moved so fast in my life. I got out of that tent and took a look at it from the outside. Then I saw them through the fabric, outlined against the firelight, huge blobbish things lurking under the tent roof and just waiting to drop on someone! Or so I thought at the time,” he said gloomily.

  “So what did you do?”

  “I went to find the Baron, to warn him, for the good of the whole forest. I described what I’d seen. ‘Those things are a danger to us all!’ I told him. And he gave me a kind of funny look. I knew right away he didn’t believe me, so I told the silly bugger to come and see for himself. But he was enjoying himself with Margawse and it took some time to get him away. And when we finally got back to the tent, we found the most ghastly thing!”

  Squatting under his tree, he shot her a frightened glance. Nyneve felt a thoroughly reprehensible urge to laugh. “Even … even more ghastly than the thing you found before?” she managed to ask.

  “Much more ghastly,” Merlin assured her. “The leeches had burst and fallen all over Sir Bors!”

  “I expect it’s nature’s way of preserving a balance,” said Nyneve. “If they could keep growing indefinitely, they’d fill the world. There has to be a limit to everything.”

  He looked at her suspiciously. “All that is beside the point. What matters is that I’d told the Baron a very strange story, and when I tried to back it up, the evidence was gone. There was just the remains of Sir Bors smothered in a rich sauce, and I can tell you the Baron was very unhappy about it. ‘What the bloody hell have you done to him, Merlin!’ he shouted, and I didn’t have any good answers. I told him I’d done everything I could for my patient and intended to return to the cottage, and he seemed to lose all control of himself. ‘Soldiers!’ he shouted. I tried to explain that violence was no solution to the problem.

  “ ‘Can you think of a better solution?’ he asked as the soldiers came running. I couldn’t, so in all fairness I warned him that I had powers, and that his actions may come back to haunt him. ‘I’ll take that chance,’ he said, laughing nastily. He was beyond reason, so I submitted reluctantly to his wishes. The rest,” concluded Merlin miserably, “you know.”

  “What I don’t know,” said Nyneve, “is what’s happened to Arthur.”

  “He went off with Morgan.”

  She tried to appear noncommittal. “Oh, yes, the Baron mentioned something about that. Did you happen to notice which way they went?”

  “That Morgan,” said Merlin enthusiastically, “she’s quite a woman. Quite a Dedo, I should say. Different from Avalona. Between you and me, Nyneve, Avalona gives me the creeps, prowling around the forest and coming up behind a person suddenly, like Death itself. Morgan, now … she’s different. You should have seen how she got Arthur!”

  “What do you mean, ‘got’ Arthur?”

  “Well, you know what I mean. He was talking to her quite normally, and then suddenly his face changed and his hands began to tremble. He kind of moved closer and was breathing heavily, and for a moment I thought he was going to jump her there and then! She’d put a spell on him, you see. But somehow he held off, and she led him away into the forest. Where they are now, and what they’re up to, is anybody’s guess!”

  “But that’s all wrong!” Nyneve found tears in her eyes and blinked them back furiously. “That couldn’t happen. It was supposed to be Margawse, and then when it obviously wasn’t going to be, I thought … I thought he was safe!”

  “Nobody’s safe with Morgan le Fay.”

  “But she’s a Dedo! She’s not human at all—she’s a Finger of Starquin like Avalona! What possible reason could she have for … fooling around with Arthur? She doesn’t have any feelings—does she?”

  “Not unless it’s in her interests to have them.”

  “And is it?”

  He looked cunning—a most unpleasant sight in the firelight. “It may be. You know she and Avalona disagree about how to handle the next thirty thousand years? Well, I think this is all part of her plan to do things her way!”

  “But why is she doing this? She’s a Dedo and Arthur’s a human! What … what does that mean?”

  “It means whatever Morgan wants it to mean.”

  “What do you think that is, Merlin?”

  ‘Well … Morgan intends something to come of this. To my knowledge a human and a Dedo have never mated. But Morgan’s not your normal Dedo. I’d guess she intends to give birth sometime in the ifalong, and she wants to use some of Arthur’s genes. I think she’s going to produce something powerful and—how would you say it?—evil, something that can help her discredit Arthur and the idea of chivalry that Avalona’s trying to put across, something rather like herself, only male. …”

  “Mordred,” whispered Nyneve.

  They sat in silence. The music and laughter died away as one by one the revelers fell asleep. Somewhere in the forest something unthinkable was going on. Nyneve and Merlin, wakeful, sat under their tree. At the moment of conception, thought Nyneve, something unique and recognizable ought to happen. Like an earthquake, or a shooting star.

  But the earth didn’t move, and the sky was dark with clouds.

  Merlin glanced at her craftily. “So there’s no point in you running around after Arthur anymore,” he said, touching her knee.

  “It’s too late. I love him.” It seemed to Nyneve that the night would go on forever.

  7

  “THE IRISH ARE COMING!”

  ONE MORNING THREE WEEKS LATER, PONG THE Intrepid was leaning over the gunwales of his birchbark boat, harvesting kelp. It was low tide and the flat, slippery strands lay along the surface, making his task easy. Grasping a strand, he pulled it into the boat until the kelp resisted, anchored by its roots to the seabed. Then he took his sailor’s knife, fashioned by the Accursed Gnomes, and cut the strand off short. His new friend, Snout, pushed the boat to keep it in place. Snout was a dolphin from the giants’ happentrack who seemed to have taken a liking to Pong and had gotten into the habit of helping with the harvesting.

  The work was easier and safer at low tide. At high tide only the tips of the kelp showed at the surface, and Pong had to get a rope around them and haul the strands up bodily, roots and all.

  And occasionally a baby lopster had been clinging to the roots.

  Those had been terrifying moments. He’d let the kelp sink to the bottom and had sat there shivering, his gaze ranging fearfully over the sea. At the leap and splash of a fish he would scream. At any moment, Pong surmised, the monstrous form of the lopster—the grandfather of all baby lopsters—would emerge dripping from the surface and confront him furiously, towering over the boat. And then …

  He heard a splash behind him and uttered an involuntary yell of horror, dropping the kelp. His head snapped around. The water stretched, rippling toward France. Snout had caused the splash, frolicking. There was no lopster.

  The lopster, he told himself, probably didn’t exist in this new world. The creature h
ad probably been canceled out by more favorable probabilities. Nyneve had tried to explain that to him. He’d made discreet inquiries elsewhere, and the giants had denied ever seeing such a creature.

  The giants … For a moment Pong pondered the question of the giants. Though not a pleasant topic, it was infinitely preferable to the lopster.

  The giants seemed friendly enough, though huge. But their size didn’t bother him so much as their numbers. Already the world seethed with them, leaving precious little room for gnomes. How could any race allow itself to become so numerous?

  Gnomes were not numerous. The structure of their society didn’t allow it. Each gnome had a job to do. In Mara Zion gnomedom, Pong was the sailorgnome, Fang was the Memorizer, Elmera was the seamstress, Tom brewed the beer, Jack bred the rabbits, and so on. Occasionally there would be a supernumerary gnome; Fang had been one such, until he had taken over his father’s Memorizer’s duties. Young gnomes were often supernumerary, as were old gnomes; it was no disgrace. But the point was, every gnome had a job, or would have a job, or had had a job. Gnome communities were organized that way, everywhere. Loose guilds existed, and gnomes with the same jobs would exchange news and information by way of traveling gnomes. Occasionally a gnome would visit a nearby community and talk shop with his counterpart. Guild methods and secrets were fiercely guarded.

  A few communities consisted of specialists such as the Accursed Gnomes, whose jobs could not be integrated conveniently into a normal community without causing distress.

  And there were the unfortunate gnomes who, for one reason or another, didn’t fit in anywhere. The Princess of the Willow Tree was one such. The circumstances of her birth were so shameful that she could never be accepted into any of the recognized guilds. She could only make herself useful in whatever ways she could.

  Jobs were not necessarily passed from parent to child. At any one time there might be several children in a community, and any one of these could take up a job when an incumbent retired. Sometimes a pair of gnomes were unable to have children, and other gnomes would be obliged to bear additional children to step into the forthcoming vacancies. Usually, though, gnomes took on the jobs they were most familiar with—which was the job one of their parents had carried out.