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

by Coney, Michael G.

  She regarded Lancelot steadily. “I feel nothing.”

  “You will,” he said, smiling magnificently. “It will come.”

  “How much longer are you going to be talking down there?” shouted the coachman. “I have a schedule to keep. I should have been at Castle Menheniot by now!”

  The sun lay low over the sea, gilding the panels of the carriage. A warm breeze brought the scent of wild roses, and somewhere a wolf cried. “This Arthur,” said Guinevere, “what’s he like?”

  “Red-haired,” said Merlin. “Tall. Good with a sword.”

  “Lacking in confidence, perhaps,” said Lancelot judicially, “but not a bad fellow. His men seem to like him.”

  “Why isn’t he here?”

  “He was called away to put down a rebellion.”

  “I’m supposed to be a guest of Nyneve,” said Gwen helplessly.

  “Nyneve knows Arthur well,” said Merlin. “Everything’s arranged. A room is waiting for you at the Great Hall of Mara Zion.”

  “A Great Hall is a funny place to stay at, isn’t it?”

  “Arthur’s castle is still under construction, my dear. Great empires must have small beginnings.”

  She regarded them both for a long moment, then some imp of mischief made her laugh aloud. “Is there room for me on that horse, Lancelot? I have no intention of arriving in Mara Zion on muleback!”

  9

  MIDSUMMER IN MARA ZION

  AS THE ROMAN CITIES DECLINED, THE BRITON WAR-lords set themselves up in the hills, prepared to fight against any invader, be he Pict, Irish, or Saxon. Many warlords renovated the Celtic Iron Age hill forts such as Cadbury, Glastonbury, and Badon, which had been lying unused since the Roman conquest. Others, such as King Lodegrance at Camyliard and Baron Menheniot, had always lived beyond direct Roman influence and merely strengthened their existing fortifications.

  The Britons eyed one another with hostility from their forts, making frequent forays into their neighbors’ territory and carrying off cattle, sheep, and women. They eyed the Saxons with even more hostility. These onetime mercenaries had settled in Kent and the southeast, and were spreading inexorably westward.

  And just as inexorably, the legend of King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table was spreading eastward.

  Historians of later years would ponder over the curiously low birthrate of those years when humans and gnomes walked the English byways. For many years the population remained static. Kings fought kings, barons fought barons, and all fought the Saxons. If there was a truce, it would be for the purpose of uniting against the Picts, the Scots, the Irish, the Danes, or whoever else was lured by the green and fertile land.

  Any male above the age of puberty and below the age of death might find himself a soldier at any moment, at the whim of his warlord. So far as women were concerned, a good man was hard to find—or any man, for that matter. All too often, they were either fighting or dead. Lonely spinsters abounded.

  One such was Elaine, the beautiful woman of Trevarron Isle.

  The Norman warriors had recently stopped by, landing on the island to capture sheep. They found a middle-aged couple who offered no resistance and were therefore speared amid laughter. Their daughter escaped and hid among a tumble of rocks at the eastern end of the island. Here a lone Norman found her. In the space of a day he gained her confidence because he seemed more gentle than the others. Then he left, leaving her unharmed but not untouched, swearing that he would return for her one day.

  Elaine buried her parents and resumed her life, raising sheep and a few vegetables, occasionally sailing to the mainland to trade with the villagers of Mara Zion. In due course she became less mobile.

  One midsummer day when the sun baked the rocks until they crackled, she lay in the shade panting, feeling the child kicking the walls of her belly. Around noon she saw a sail approaching from the north. Even as her heart gave a huge thump, she realized the craft was far too small to carry human cargo. Sighing, she climbed ponderously down to the sandy beach. The tiny boat grounded. Four gnomes stepped out, straightened their caps, and regarded her purposefully.

  “Are you Elaine?” one asked.

  “I am she.”

  “We are Pong the Intrepid, the Miggot of One, Spector the Thinking Gnome, arid Fang.”

  “Isn’t Fang anything?”

  “He used to be our leader, but he was deposed. He has taken it well. There’s no rancor in Fang.”

  “I’m so glad.” Elaine knelt awkwardly before them. “So what brings you to my island?”

  “We’d like to see your house,” said the Miggot.

  “Of course.” She was pleased. “I don’t often get visitors.”

  “Fang,” Spector murmured, “she’s—”

  “I can see that. Avalona told Nyneve she would be. That’s the point of the whole thing.” Fang regarded Elaine sympathetically. “Lead the way but don’t walk too fast, please.”

  “Of course.”

  The gnomes followed Elaine along the beach, then over rolling, close-cropped grass, past well-maintained fencing and neat vegetable patches, to a gray stone cottage staring sternly out to sea from under a heavy brow of thatch.

  “Looks a bit gloomy, doesn’t it?” observed Pong.

  “That’s what giants’ dwellings look like. They have no feeling for the landscape,” Spector told him. “They build anywhere it suits them.”

  But the interior was cool and cheerful, and the gnomes’ spirits rose. A table wore a bright woven cloth, with a jug of lavender sprigs set in the center. The fire burned low, just enough to simmer a pot of aromatic stew. A chair by the window was covered with sheepskin, and beneath the second window was a newly built crib in which lay a knitted woolen blanket, dyed blue. The gnomes nodded at one another approvingly.

  “What news is there from Mara Zion?” asked Elaine.

  “The rabbit compound is complete,” said Pong eagerly, “and Fang and the Princess are living near where Fang’s old dwelling used to be. Clubfoot Trimble has been elected innkeeper. The moles built Bart o’ Bodmin a burrow near the racetrack, and the Gnome from the North is living with him temporarily. The Gnome from the North talks of riding south.”

  “With luck he’ll ride into the sea and that’ll be the end of him,” said the Miggot.

  “I really can’t understand why you’re so impressed by this Drexel Poxy, Pong,” said Fang.

  “He came from the north, riding a rabbit white as snow.”

  “What’s so good about that? I’m sure Jack o’ the Warren could breed anyone a white rabbit, if they wanted one.”

  “But he came from the north,” protested Pong.

  Fang couldn’t let that pass, either. “The north’s over that way.” He pointed. “Are you saying it’s any better than that way? Or that way?”

  Spector explained. “It’s the combination that counts, Fang. Coming from the north on a white rabbit, don’t you see?”

  “No, I don’t see, Spector, not really. Supposing I chose to ride into gnomedom from that direction, on a white rabbit Jack had lent me. Would Pong be so impressed?”

  “Probably not. You don’t represent the mystical.”

  “What’s mystical about a gnome with a name like Drexel Poxy?” snapped the Miggot.

  “I meant what human news is there from Mara Zion,” said Elaine plaintively.

  The gnomes remembered their manners. “Guinevere is living at the Great Hall,” Fang told her, “and she and Arthur will be married in the autumn.”

  “Unless Lancelot gets her first,” said the Miggot nastily.

  “That’s just a giantish rumor. Gnomes don’t think that way, Miggot.”

  “Infidelity is a concept alien to gnomes,” Spector remarked.

  “That may be our bad luck,” said the Miggot.

  “I certainly can’t understand infidelity,” said Fang. “Anyway, Arthur and Guinevere are getting along very well, and Arthur is building a new Round Table in her honor, to be ready for the wedding.
But Nyneve is terribly upset about the whole thing. She calls Guinevere a treacherous bitch. Nyneve loves Arthur, you see.”

  The Miggot recalled himself to the purpose of their visit and squinted up at Elaine. “You’re not married. But you’re pregnant. Where is the giant who fertilized you?”

  Elaine flushed. “He’s away in a ship. He’ll be back soon.”

  “Do you think he’ll be here for the birth?”

  “I hope so. But even if he isn’t, I’ll have the baby to keep me company. It’ll be a little part of him. Something to remind me of him, until he gets back.” The flush had become a radiance, and the gnomes shuffled their feet in embarrassment. Most gnomes didn’t think of other gnomes that way. Fang was an exception.

  “Are you lonely here?” he asked.

  “Sometimes,” she admitted sadly. “But the baby will be here soon.”

  Later, as the gnomes sailed back to Mara Zion, Spector said, “At least you had the tact not to tell her the baby’s going to die, Miggot.”

  They parted company when they arrived back at Mara Zion beach. Pong pulled his boat clear of the high-water mark and retired to his cave to recover from the terrors of the voyage. The Miggot rode northwest, to check on Pan and the Sharan. Spector rode northeast, to discuss death with the Gooligog. And Fang rode north, to talk to Jack o’ the Warren about a slight lameness affecting Thunderer’s left foreleg.

  He found Jack peering through the woven osiers of the fence.

  “Look at them! You see what they’re doing?”

  Fang looked. “They don’t seem to be doing anything much. Just munching, the way rabbits usually do.”

  “They’re leaning up against each other, Fang. They’ve paired off and they’re leaning up against each other.”

  It was true. All over the enclosure the rabbits sat side by side, pressed against each other, heads close, as though exchanging confidential information.

  “They’re plotting something,” said Jack. “History is repeating itself!”

  “If they were plotting, they’d all be huddled in one big mob”—Fang regarded the rabbits closely—”and every so often one of them would glance over its shoulder at you.”

  “Don’t think I haven’t seen them in a mob. It happens every time I feed them, and believe me, Fang, it makes my blood run cold. Oh, by the Sword of Agni,” Jack lamented, “I wish we were back on the old happentrack in the days of the bogus rabbits. Nothing ever went wrong with the bogus rabbits. They never got sick, they never snapped at me, and they certainly never plotted against me. All I had to worry about was the occasional conversation with the Miggot. But now life’s one long worry.”

  “They’re not all plotting, Jack. Look over there. There’s a pair lying head to tail.”

  “That’s Standfast and Charger. They’re the most stupid rabbits of the lot. They’re probably wondering why they’re not communicating. Oh, my God. They heard me. Look at that.” His voice rose to a squeak of terror. The rabbits had all jumped apart—guiltily, it seemed, even to Fang—and were staring this way and that, ears waving attentively, heads high.

  Then came a sound that froze the gnomes where they stood. A low snarl carried across the enclosure, followed by a single, sharp bark.

  “A dog!” cried Jack.

  They also heard the human voice that quite plainly followed the bark.

  “Get them, Bruiser!”

  The compound covered a ridge in the forest so that the far side was hidden from the gnomes’ sight. The rabbits could see over the ridge, though. They bounded along, eyes rolling in terror. From somewhere came a squeal of pain and fear, and a dreadful snarling sound.

  “What shall we do, Fang?”

  “I don’t know! Why ask me?”

  “You’re supposed to be a natural leader of gnomes!”

  “Climb the tree!” Fang grabbed the lowest branch and hauled himself up.

  “A tree!” Jack gasped, arriving breathless at the branch.

  “What a good idea! I was looking for a hole. It’s a gnomish thing to look for a hole in times of danger. But you have a more flexible mind, Fang.” He stared down through the summer leaves of the oak, catching the occasional glimpse of a fleeing rabbit.

  Then they saw the dog. It came over the top of the rise at a full run: a rawboned brown brute, jaws flecked with blood, ears laid back. It drove the rabbits before it, herding them down the slope toward the gnomes’ tree.

  Fang glimpsed the man and thought he recognized him.

  The rabbits reached the narrow southwestern corner of the compound. Here the fence formed a cul-de-sac into which Jack drove rabbits he needed to examine, to treat or sell. The frightened creatures piled into the constriction, scrambling on top of one another into a packed, struggling mass.

  The dog closed in.

  It seized the outermost rabbit, gave it a single violent shake, and threw it aside. The rabbit lay twitching, dying.

  “Good dog!”

  The dog worked fast and efficiently. The rabbits couldn’t escape, and one by one they were shaken and cast aside with broken necks, to die quickly. There was very little noise now. The dog was too busy to snarl. The rabbits would squeal once when they felt the jaws bite into their flesh, then the quick shake would paralyze them and they would die soundlessly. It was quite humane. In a short while they were all dead.

  The man stooped and patted the dog. Then he picked up the two biggest rabbits. “Come, Bruiser!” he called, and strode off to be hidden by the intervening leaves. His heavy boots were quiet on the grass, then they crunched over rock. Finally the fence shook, and he was gone.

  The gnomes sat on their branch, trembling and staring down at the dead rabbits.

  “I didn’t want this,” said Jack, tears in his eyes. “I may have suspected them, but I swear by the Great Grasshopper, I didn’t want this to happen.”

  “I know you didn’t, Jack.”

  “We spent ages catching and taming those rabbits. Everybody helped. Nyneve and Torre built the fence for us.”

  They climbed down, crossed the enclosure, and came to a place where the fence was broken down. “This is where he climbed over,” said Jack. “What shall we do now?”

  “Build it up again and get hold of some more rabbits.”

  “What’s the point? The giants will kill them all again.”

  “We’ll have to report this to Arthur.”

  “That’s tantamount to saying we can’t look after ourselves!”

  “All right,” said Fang irritably, “you suggest something.”

  Jack scanned the enclosure, the broken fence, the dead rabbits. He looked at the trees. He looked at the sky. “We’ll tell Bison,” he said eventually.

  “Yes. We’ll tell Bison. And then we’ll tell Arthur.”

  They found Bison sitting outside the entrance to his new dwelling. His eyes were closed, and the evening sun illuminated an expression of contentment on his face. A mug of beer stood on the grass beside him. An appetizing smell drifted out of the burrow; Lady Duck was preparing the evening meal.

  “The giants have killed all the rabbits!” cried Jack, kicking him.

  Bison opened one eye. “The what?”

  “It was a deliberate attack. The rabbits are wiped out. Our means of transport has been taken away from us. The giants have immobilized us, and I think I know why!”

  Bison opened both eyes. “That’s terrible news. Although I still have my rabbit.” He scanned the glade blearily. “And so have you two. I see them over there.”

  “But we have no replacements!”

  “Do you need replacements right now?”

  “We never know when we might need replacements! Fang told me Thunderer was limping.”

  “Slightly. He told me that too. He said Thunderer was favoring his right foreleg.”

  “Left.”

  “I’m sure he said right.”

  Jack appealed to the ex-leader. “Which leg did you say, Fang?”

  “I said left, actually, but t
hat isn’t the—”

  He was cut short by a thudding of paws as a rabbit white as snow bounded into the clearing. Drexel Poxy slid to the ground and eyed them expectantly. “Well?”

  “Well, what, Poxy?” said Bison irritably. He was getting a little impatient with gnomes who wanted action from him at the time of the evening meal.

  “Well … what’s this meeting about?”

  “Fang’s rabbit Thunderer’s right foreleg.”

  “Left, actually, but—”

  “Is that all?” asked Poxy, puzzled.

  “It’s a serious matter,” said Jack indignantly. “The slightest lameness in a rabbit can result in problems later on, if not properly treated.”

  “Thunderer is more than a rabbit. He’s an institution,” said Bison, drinking and wiping his lips. The gnomes nodded wisely, all except Drexel Poxy, who seemed dissatisfied and was about to say something when another rabbit hopped up. Spector dismounted. “The Gooligog accepted his destiny,” he announced. “He is at peace.”

  “You mean, he’s dead?” Fang cried, alarmed. Although he and his father had frequently been at loggerheads, he’d always hoped that one day there would be a reconciliation. He’d imagined the scene many times: the dank dwelling and the Gooligog smiling wanly up from a sweat-stained pillow. “Willie—I mean, Fang—forgive me. I’ve not always been the kind of father I’d like to have been.” And Fang would hand him a mug of mulled beer, which the Gooligog would accept with trembling hands, spilling a few drops onto his nightgown. “You’ve been a good son to me, Fang.” The next few words would be inaudible, because the Gooligog would choke on his beer and lie there coughing weakly, tears streaming down his ravaged cheeks. He would try to speak. “Hush, Father,” Fang would say. “I understand.” And the sad hooting of an owl would drift into the burrow, and the faithful housemouse would be sitting at the foot of the bed, gazing at the Gooligog with liquid eyes, drooling. “Dead?” asked Fang again, shocked and disappointed.

  “He is composing himself.”