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

by Coney, Michael G.

  As often happened on these occasions, Pong found himself thinking about his father, Poop the Craven, who had fled Mara Zion and never been heard of again. Why had Poop fled? Probably, thought Pong, because the lopster had risen from the depths and confronted him. And what was Poop doing now? No respectable gnomish community would allow him in; that was certain. Communities were carefully balanced. Although strangers were welcomed, it was fully understood that their stay would be temporary. Poop was probably leading a sad and nomadic existence.

  Which brought Pong to Bart. How long did Bart intend to stay? He’d been in Mara Zion for four weeks now and showed no sign of moving on. He’d said he was a Memorizer; so how did Bodmin function without him?

  Pong was a simple soul, friendly and tolerant as only a gnome can be; but it seemed he’d sometimes observed a crafty gleam in Bart’s eyes. And that was not the kind of gleam one wanted to see in the eyes of an honest gnome. Another thing: Bart seemed to have a knack of befriending the more unsavory of Mara Zion’s inhabitants, such as the Gooligog. Bart, decided Pong, was bad news. This was unfortunate, because Pong was responsible for introducing Bart to Mara Zion.

  “Bugger it,” Pong said to the wide ocean as he trimmed the kelp into bite-sized portions for gnomish cooking pots.

  And the ocean, as though in reply, produced six black objects near the horizon. Giantish boats, thought Pong bitterly, remembering all the years he’d had the sea to himself. Giantish boats coming this way, packed with giants all set to swell the forest population.

  He hoisted the sail and made speed for the shore. He could see banks of oars thrashing at the water, and sails straining full of wind. There was no point in sitting here in the path of those juggernauts. The boats had a warlike mien, even when viewed from this distance. Probably Irish, he thought resignedly, looking forward to another battle.

  Irish!

  What had Nyneve said the other day? “Pong, you have sharp eyes, and your cave is well placed. I want you to keep an eye on the horizon from time to time, and if you see any boats coming from the west, let me know immediately. We’re expecting the Irish. They seem to have some kind of a grudge against us.”

  The little boat crunched onto the pebbles. Pong leapt ashore and dragged it up the beach. Possessed by a feeling of mild heroism, he ran to his cave. He would give the alarm. The Irish are coming! And Fang would commit it to memory at the monthly meeting, and it would go down in Mara Zion history: The Day Pong Saved King Arthur from the Irish Hosts.

  “Away, Thunderer!” he cried enthusiastically as he entered his cave, full tilt.

  Chit-chit-chit-chit! came an earsplitting reply from the rocky darkness.

  “The lopster!” screamed Pong, feet plowing into the sand of the cave floor as he braked frantically.

  Chit-chit-chit! Light reflected from a great triangular head from which sprouted armored feelers. They waved at him while the mandibles worked thoughtfully, limbering up for the taste of gnome. The head tilted and a huge eye scanned him with multifaceted impersonality.

  “Oh, God!” screamed Pong, as his impetus took him sliding toward legs like peeled and jointed tree trunks. Full length, he scrabbled at the sand and at last succeeded in reversing direction. He shot out of the cave and scurried along the beach, dimly aware of a disappointed chit-chit-chit from behind. He untied his rabbit with fumbling fingers, leapt astride, and kicked it into a rocketing hop.

  The cliff was a blurred wall to his left; the pebbles passed beneath the rabbit’s flying feet in a broad gray streak. From now on, he thought desperately, I will lead a good life. I will throw away my knife and cut kelp with a sharp rock. The firelighter will never enter my dwelling again. I will shiver through the winter with only blankets to keep me warm, and I will use no leather or skins, and it will be good for my soul. The house of Pong will be a monument to the Kikihuahua Examples.

  Blurred rocks changed to blurred trees as he entered the forest. The rabbit, receiving no direction from the paralyzed Pong, eventually lolloped to a halt at the woven willow fence of the new rabbit compound. Jack o’ the Warren sat at the narrow entrance, eyes averted from a vigorously copulating pair of rabbits.

  “Jack,” said Pong casually, trying to sound like a gnome who had not been fleeing for his life. He had his name to maintain.

  “Pong,” replied Jack, brightening slightly.

  “Would you have … such a thing as a flask of beer, Jack?”

  “I thought you didn’t believe in beer.”

  For a moment Pong debated telling Jack about the lopster. After all, Jack had confessed to the bogus rabbits, and Pong thought more of him for it. … Or did he?

  No, decided Pong, he thought less of Jack. “It’s been a hard ride,” he said curtly.

  Jack produced a flask and handed it up to Pong. Pong drank thirstily, and a glow of well-being began to spread from his stomach. He wondered why he’d never drunk beer before. He surveyed the compound with a benevolent eye. The two rabbits, their lust slaked, were munching their separate ways, but another couple was regarding each other with ear-waving interest.

  “You have nerves of iron, Jack,” said Pong kindly, as the rabbits began a preparatory nosing and shrugging.

  “You get used to it,” said Jack. “Provided you don’t start thinking about what they’re actually doing. I try to think of it as just another example of rabbity behavior, like eating. What could be more normal than eating?”

  “Scratching,” suggested Pong.

  “I don’t really think scratching is more normal than eating,” said Jack seriously. “Eating is essential to survival.”

  “Scratching happens more often.”

  As if in support of Pong’s argument, the rabbits moved apart and began to scratch. Jack regarded them in some irritation. Their various itches satisfied, they began to nibble at a clump of dandelions. “They lead a simple existence,” he said tolerantly. “Eating, sleeping, and, er, filth.”

  “And scratching.”

  “Not a care in the world.” Thoughtfully he said, “At least we haven’t seen the woodypecker around the forest lately.”

  They rejoiced in silence over the absence of this garish and embarrassing bird, then Pong said, “I think it got left behind on our old happentrack.”

  “Long may it remain there.”

  Another silence followed while Pong began to feel that he’d forgotten something important. He worked his way back through his memory but the nightmare vision of the lopster dominated recent events to an overpowering extent. He skipped that and went straight to the moment he’d woken up. He’d washed and dressed and gone out to harvest kelp, the tide being low. Snout had been with him. The sea was calm, the horizon arched and even, and …

  “The Irish are coming!” yelled Pong. “The Irish are coming!”

  The results were not nearly so dramatic as he’d imagined. “You don’t have to shout,” Jack said, aggrieved.

  “You don’t understand! I’ve ridden nonstop from the beach to warn our friends the giants of the approaching peril!”

  “Rabbits shouldn’t be ridden so far nonstop,” said Jack seriously. “Short bursts are what rabbits are built for. Short bursts with a rest in between. Perhaps a drink and maybe a few minutes grazing to restore the energy level. A good brushing”—Jack warmed to his theme—”will often work wonders for the exhausted rabbit. Get him into the shade. If necessary—”

  “We must find Nyneve!”

  “—fan his ears. The extremities are—”

  “I’m going!” Pong kicked his mount hard—a time-honored method of overcoming exhaustion in rabbits—and like so many of the old remedies, it worked. The rabbit loped rapidly down the path, bearing Pong in the direction of Avalona’s cottage.

  During the short reign of the great Tristan, one problem had never been satisfactorily solved. In Tristan’s Great Hall—a barnlike structure close by the village—three men were making yet another attempt.

  “The purpose of the Round Table,” said A
rthur, “is to ensure that all knights are equal. The table has no head, therefore nobody can sit at it.”

  “All knights may be equal,” said Torre, “but you are our leader. So what we really need is an oblong table with you sitting at the head.”

  “Or possibly,” suggested Governayle, “a table in the form of an isosceles triangle with you sitting at the apex.”

  “That won’t work,” said Arthur. “The knights sitting nearest the apex will feel they are in some way favored.”

  “Well, aren’t they?” asked Governayle. “I mean, if you don’t favor Torre and I, for instance, why didn’t you bring Palomides along to discuss this problem?”

  Arthur found the implications of the question too complex, so he dismissed it brusquely. “Palomides is a jackass. Nevertheless, he is equal. Accept it. The table must be round, obviously; otherwise it wouldn’t be the Round Table.”

  “Tristan found he couldn’t sit at the rim of a round table,” said Torre, “because somebody would have to sit next to him, and they would be looked on as favored. He tried to get over the problem by cutting a hole in the middle of the table and sitting there. But that wasn’t too successful, either, because he had to crawl through everybody’s legs to get there, or walk over the table, which some people viewed as appalling manners, and inappropriate for a leader of men.”

  “The Round Table became a liability,” said Governayle. “And the women began to laugh, because we spent a lot of time discussing ways to make it work. Then one of the women suggested suspending Tristan from a harness and swinging him in a circle so that he kept passing before each person sitting at the Round Table. Unfortunately, by then we were all rather tired, and some people took her seriously.”

  “You took her seriously,” said Torre. “You said that Tristan could have a table suspended, too, swinging with him.”

  Governayle flushed. “I don’t remember that.”

  “Yes, you do. You said that Tristan’s food and wine would stay in place on his swinging table, because of some law of physics Merlin told you about.”

  “Centrifugal force,” muttered Governayle. “The table would tilt inward as it swung, and his plate and mug would stick to it.”

  “There you are, you see. And then the women started to laugh, and we realized we were being made fun of. It was an embarrassing moment, and Tristan avoided using the Round Table after that. It had become discredited, and we didn’t talk about it anymore.”

  “The Round Table is a potent symbol of chivalry,” said Arthur, “and it’s a great shame that it should fall into disuse because of a few practical difficulties.”

  “The women see it as a potent symbol of stupidity,” said Torre.

  “That will change. I propose to resurrect the Table.” He thumped the heavy oak, raising a puff of dust. “But this time it will be constructed according to sound principles of engineering. Does the Great Hall have cellars?”

  “It does. The stairs are against the north wall.”

  Arthur strode across the hall. Torre and Governayle followed, glancing at each other unhappily. The great Tristan, too, had sometimes become obsessed with appearances instead of victories. They remembered his famous speech following the Battle of Callington, when his forces were routed by the Welsh. “It matters not who won the battle,” he had intoned from a makeshift platform on the village green, “it matters only who is perceived to have won.”

  And like many of Tristan’s utterances, it had sounded pretty good at first hearing, and his men had cheered him resoundingly. But as the shouting died, a lone voice had called out, “But we are perceived to have lost!” And the men returned to reality with a jolt, and their wounds began to pain them again.

  “I really think, Arthur,” ventured Governayle, a reasonably sensible young man who lived in fear of being correctly identified as the Lone Voice at Callington, “that it would be better to forget the Round Table. It’s brought us nothing but grief. We invested all kinds of time into building this place, and where has it gotten us?”

  “I shall need a team of carpenters,” said Arthur firmly, “and a team of horses. Make a note of that, Torre.”

  Torre, too, had been remembering Callington. The reason for their defeat had been apparent to all. Tristan, obsessed with the need for presenting a smart and disciplined appearance on the field of battle, had ordered his foot soldiers to burnish their armor and his cavalry to dubbin their saddles. The Welsh had attacked while both men and horses were undressed.

  “You need a team of horses,” he said, “and a team of carpenters. It shall be done.”

  “No, Torre,” said Arthur patiently. “A team of carpenters and a team of horses.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “The sequence is important. A team of carpenters. Then—after a reasonable interval—a team of horses. And within the month,” Arthur cried in ringing tones, “the Round Table shall live again!”

  He had paused at the top of the cellar steps in order to deliver this pronouncement. The effect was spoiled somewhat by a crash as the main door flew open. Nyneve ran into the Great Hall, her black hair flying like a mane.

  “Arthur! The Irish are coming! The Irish are coming!” She halted before them, breathless.

  “The Irish?”

  “Their ships are approaching the beach. I’ve alerted the men. They told me I’d find you here.”

  “It’s Arthur’s job to alert the men, Nyneve,” said Torre sternly. “You’ve exceeded your authority.”

  “You did well, Nyneve,” said Arthur reassuringly. “Do we propose to fight the Irish, or invite them to a feast?”

  It was a good question. “By the time we find out,” said Governayle thoughtfully, “it could be too late.”

  “Then obviously we should assume they’ve come to fight us, and act accordingly,” said Torre. “Meet the bastards on the beach and hurl them back into the sea! Tristan did it once.”

  “Sometimes I feel I’m living in the shadow of Tristan,” said Arthur sadly.

  “Ambush them in the forest,” said Governayle. “Lie in wait beside the path. Allow them to pass, then take them from the rear. As they turn, bring in a second force to attack their flank. That way we can wipe out every last man!”

  “Won’t they be expecting that?”

  “No. They’ll expect to take us by surprise. Nobody lives near the beach, you see. You get the most fearful cold winds funneling up the valley in the winter. So there’s nobody to give the alarm. Who did give the alarm, by the way?”

  “Pong,” said Nyneve.

  “That’s the gnome who lives in the cliff cave, isn’t it?” said Arthur. “Those little fellows are already proving their worth as allies. Size is no measure of courage.”

  Torre, a huge man, said, “Pong is reputed to be an unusually cowardly gnome. No doubt he fled from the Irish.”

  “He told me he fled from the lopster,” said Nyneve. “But all this is beside the point, isn’t it? You must get your armor on, Arthur. Your men will be waiting for you.”

  “I need no armor,” said Arthur. “I have Excalibur.”

  “Excalibur!” shouted Torre enthusiastically.

  “Come on, then!” said Nyneve.

  Sometime later the forces of Mara Zion crouched in the undergrowth near the path to the village, Governayle’s plan having prevailed. It was raining steadily, dribbling down the necks of the men and causing mutterings of discontent.

  “There’s fifty of us here getting wet,” observed Palomides, “all because we’ve accepted the word of a frightened little bugger called Pong.”

  “He can’t help his name,” Torre pointed out.

  “It’s not his name I’m objecting to. It’s his size. Never trust a small man, that’s been my watchword, and it’s served me in good stead.”

  “I’ll grant you small men are often untrustworthy,” said Torre, “but where you make your mistake, Ned, is in thinking of him as a man. He’s not. He’s a gnome. Different rules apply. For all you know,
it’s big gnomes that are untrustworthy.”

  “So maybe he is a big gnome. How can you tell unless you see a bunch of them all together?”

  Arthur, crouched nearby, said, “This is not the kind of talk I like to hear from future knights. Remember this, and remember it well. All intelligent creatures are equal—men and gnomes, large and small. We must treat them all with equal respect and we must give them all the benefit of the doubt—until we find we’re mistaken, of course. They are innocent until proven guilty.”

  “Why are we waiting here to kill the Irish, then?”

  “The Irish are different,” said Arthur.

  Governayle helped him out. “For the purpose of this day’s work, we may regard them as slightly subhuman. Unless, of course, they become our allies. That would put them on the side of God and everything that is right and just.”

  “Sometimes I don’t know what the hell you people are talking about,” complained Ned, baffled. “To me there are just two kinds of people. There are your enemies, who you kick in the teeth. And there are your allies, who you watch like a hawk. How can anyone change sides? It makes the whole concept of war meaningless.”

  “I’ve just remembered something,” said Governayle. “The Irish are our allies.”

  “What!” Arthur rose slowly from concealment, shedding leaves and water.

  “In the excitement we all forgot. In past years the Irish have certainly been our traditional enemies. That’s how this misunderstanding has arisen. They made a habit of raiding the village and carrying off food and women.”

  “How did the village survive through the generations, with the women gone?” asked Arthur, interested.

  “They took only the best-looking women. I’ll say this for the Irish: They had good taste. All we were left with were the aged and infirm women, and a handful of younger ones who were not considered well favored. With these we bred. It was an intolerable burden, but we lacked a leader to organize us to counter it. Then came Tristan.”