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

by Coney, Michael G.

  “Prophesies, Drexel?”

  “Gnomes love a prophesy,” Poxy had said, his face getting alarmingly closer. “There’s a bunch of stupid gnomes down in Mara Zion who dye their caps red, if you can believe it. And there’s some kind of giant down there who can step out of the umbra, who pretends she can foretell the future. The Mara Zion gnomes are enormously impressed by this. Added to which the forest of Mara Zion is prime gnome country, much too good for the gnomes who live there. It all adds up, doesn’t it?”

  “I’m sure it does, Drexel.”

  “Here’s my plan. You go down to Mara Zion and start prophesying about a legendary gnome called, say, the Gnome from the North. Tell them he’ll lead them out of their sorrow and tribulation—gnomes always want to be led out of that. Impress it on them; get their Memorizer to memorize it, until the name of the Gnome from the North becomes as familiar as their own navels. And then, in their darkest hour, I’ll arrive and fulfill the prophesy.”

  “But what’s the point?” Bart had asked.

  “They’ll be amazed and respectful gnomes, Bart. They’ll hang on our very words, and without them realizing what’s happened, we’ll be in charge. We’ll hold them in the palm of our hands. Our fame will spread throughout the land. We’ll build a gnomish empire, you and I. Think of the power!”

  And Poxy’s eyes had blazed into Bart’s, and something of Poxy’s vision had seeped through into Bart’s brain.

  The power!

  “We’ll do it, Drexel, you and I!”

  “We ride,” Poxy had said quietly, “at dawn.”

  “And that is the absolute truth,” said Bart, placing a hand on his stomach. “I swear it by the Great Grasshopper.”

  “Is it true?” the Gooligog asked Poxy.

  And the shrunken figure raised a tearstained face and whispered, “Yes.”

  “You are no longer fit to be our leader, Poxy.”

  The Gnome from the North mumbled something brokenly. It sounded like reluctant agreement.

  “In which case,” said Bart, with hardly a glance at the stooped and retreating figure of his ex-chief, “we shall need a new leader. I propose Mold!”

  “I accept!” cried the Outrageous one.

  “Mold! Mold!”

  “Breasts!” yelled the new champion triumphantly as they hoisted him shoulder-high.

  Gwen turned to Arthur. “This is a great privilege for us, Arthur. We’re witnessing the election of a new gnomish leader! I shall remember this evening all my life!”

  “So shall I,” said the king unhappily.

  Annoyed by his lack of enthusiasm, Gwen began to circulate among her guests and, as the music began, found herself cornered by Ned Palomides.

  “How did you allow that to happen?” he asked harshly.

  Surprised, she said, “Well, naturally I feel sorry for little Drexel, but—”

  “Guinevere, you are a bloody fool!”

  Outraged, she stared at him. “I am your queen! Take that back, Ned, or I’ll have Arthur deal with you!”

  Palomides was beyond caring. “Arthur wouldn’t be too pleased with your performance, either!”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t act so bloody innocent. This is me you’re talking to. Ned Palomides. We both know what the Sharan can do.” They were standing against a heavy tapestry, and Gwen found she was gripping the fabric tightly, as though to cling to some kind of reality. The other guests had gathered at the other end of the hall where brandy and mulled ale was being served. Suddenly Ned seemed grotesquely threatening, his face close to hers, exuding a powerful smell of wine. “If Arthur had that animal, he could rule the land! He could create soldiers so strong, no enemy could kill them! He could build an army of giants and conquer France! You know that as well as I do!”

  “I … I’d never thought of it.”

  “Don’t talk like a fool.” His hand gripped her arm, hurting. “Of course you thought of it. Why else did you befriend that poisonous little Poxy? Why have you been bribing the beach gnomes with food and stuff all this time? Why did you agree that the Sharan should be kept at the beach?”

  She stared at him. The room seemed to be spinning, the others an impossible way off. “Ned, it was Drexel who said the Sharan ought to be turned over to his people.”

  “You knew he would suggest it sooner or later.”

  “No!”

  “And we could have done it too. We were that close”—he shoved a finger and thumb under her nose, a fraction apart—“that bloody close to getting control of the Sharan through Poxy. And now Poxy’s finished and we have to start all over again.” Suddenly his manner changed. “How could you let it happen? I’ve been on your side all through it, helping you.”

  “Ned, there’s been a terrible mistake.”

  “You’re damned right there’s been a mistake!” His temper flared up again. “And I made it! I’ve wasted five years buggering around with you and Lancelot and those bloody gnomes!”

  “You never said anything,” she said wearily.

  “Of course not. You don’t talk about that kind of thing with Sir Perfect prancing around you all the time. It was understood. You were always saying how you wished you could be more help to Arthur. And you were always talking about the Sharan, ever since she showed up at your wedding. And you had Poxy in your pocket. Oh, yes. It was understood, all right.”

  She said slowly, “There’s something else I understand.”

  “What?”

  “If all that was true, did you really intend to build an army for Arthur? Are you loyal enough to do that, Ned, working away quietly in the forest for a few years? Or would you have built the army for yourself? Is that why you’re so angry?”

  “I can’t believe you’re so stupid not to see the value of an animal like that.” He was deflating, his expression becoming sulky.

  “It wouldn’t have worked, Ned. You’re not a leader. You remind me of the Miggot. He’s clever, but he can’t even lead his own wife. So he used the Sharan to create a hangdog that he could boss around. And that’s what you’d do. If you had the Sharan, you wouldn’t create an army to conquer the world. You’d create a hangdog and never leave the forest!”

  “To hell with you all!” He turned his back on her and walked away.

  “Ned!” He turned around but didn’t meet her eyes. “You’ve insulted your queen. You’ve called me stupid, and maybe I am. But I’m clever enough to know you’re a danger to Arthur and me. So don’t let me see you anywhere near Camelot or Mara Zion, ever again. Go to France. Go to Ireland. Go anywhere away from here. I don’t trust you.”

  The evening had fallen apart on Gwen. She rejoined the drinkers and the dancers but found no consolation. Arthur was taciturn and poor company, and the other men were merely drunk. When at last they went to bed, Arthur turned his back to her. Puzzled and hurt, Gwen lay awake beside him, and near dawn she heard him murmuring a name that was not hers.

  15

  TRANSFORMATIONS IN MARA ZION

  AFTER MUCH SOUL-SEARCHING, FANG EXPLAINED THE significance of his poem to Spector. His choice of Spector had not been made without misgivings.

  “Oh,” said the Thinking Gnome when he’d finished. “Oh, I see. Well, that explains it, of course. A lesser gnome—Jack o’ the Warren, for example—would have not paused to analyze the unusual sensations with which I’ve been plagued. He would have allowed his baser instincts full rein, and hang the consequences. But I function on a more intellectual plane, I’m happy to say. I transform my instincts into manageable symbols. Symbols never got a gnome into trouble,” he concluded loftily.

  “Perhaps you ought to explain all that to the others.”

  Spector needed little persuading. The notion of addressing a meeting of gnomes on the subject of sex fired his imagination. The possibilities for involved discussion and probing analysis were almost infinite. A few cogent topics had already occurred to him. He smiled gently.

  “The red drag
on of lust has breathed fire into the loins of gnomes!” Spector proclaimed in portentous tones.

  A couple of gnomes sniggered. Others flushed and examined various blameless parts of their bodies, such as their fingernails. Lady Duck uttered an outraged shout. “I invoke Hayle!”

  King Bison said, “What red dragon is that?”

  “The red dragon that was foretold.”

  “I don’t remember any red dragon,” said Bison, puzzled.

  “And neither do I,” shouted Lady Duck. “I believe it’s a filthy invention of the Miggot’s! There’s certainly no fire in my loins, I’m very pleased to say!”

  “It could be Fang’s idea,” said Bison to his wife quietly. “He was telling me some strange theory of his the other day. It had to do with”—he lowered his voice—”loins.”

  “Well, Fang can keep his loins to himself! We all know the trouble Fang’s loins have gotten him into. Why should he drag the rest of us down into his pit of perversion?”

  Clubfoot Trimble observed, “Funny, it doesn’t feel like a pit of perversion anymore. In fact, it feels pretty damned good.” And he leered at a young female gnome sitting on the other side of the circle. She leered back.

  “Where is this red dragon, Spector?” asked Bison. “We’re not talking about another Morble, are we? I don’t think I could stand another Morble loose in the forest.”

  “I was speaking metaphorically. The red dragon represents our desire to perpetuate the gnomish species.”

  “Is that all? Why a red dragon, for Agni’s sake? Why not a red rabbit? That would be more appropriate surely?”

  “Whoever heard of a red rabbit?” asked Spector, annoyed.

  “Whoever heard of a red dragon?”

  “It’s not a real red dragon, you damned fool.” The Miggot entered the argument. “It’s a symbolic red dragon.”

  “Sometimes,” said Jack o’ the Warren thoughtfully, “I think rabbits have the right idea. They have no sense of guilt. No sense of shame. They just go ahead and do it.”

  “So it could just as easily be a symbolic red rabbit.” Bison pursued his point, ignoring Jack. “You could easily have said, ‘The red rabbit of 1-lust’ “—and here Bison flushed, stumbling over the words—” ‘has breathed fire into the 1-loins of gnomes.’ But you didn’t. You said ‘dragon.’ Why?”

  “Bison’s hit the nail on the head, as usual!” cried Lady Duck. “The dragon was meant to intimidate us. It was a cheap trick!”

  Spector, uncharacteristically, lost patience. “I had no intention of intimidating anyone!” he shouted. “All I wanted to do was sum up the situation as I saw it! It didn’t have to be me, but I didn’t see anyone else stepping forward. So I volunteered, out of the goodness of my heart. The situation needed summing up, so I bloody well summed it up. If I’d known it would lead to this, I’d have kept my mouth shut. And then where would we be? Answer me that!”

  “But why talk in riddles, you fool?” asked Lady Duck.

  “You want it straight? Then you can have it straight. The fact is that after millennia of near celibacy, some gnomes are feeling the stirrings of filth!”

  “A-ha!” exclaimed Bison, scrutinizing the audience for signs of guilt. “So that’s what it’s all about, is it? Of course,” he added hastily, being a fair-minded leader, “I’m quite sure that filth has its place in the scheme of things.”

  Lady Duck swung around on her husband. “What’s gotten into you, Bison? Do you feel any stirrings of filth? You’d better not, or it’ll be the worse for you! I did my duty long ago!”

  “I feel no stirrings of filth,” Bison reassured her.

  Lady Duck turned to Elmera. “Do you feel any stirrings of filth?”

  “Well …” Elmera avoided her eyes. “I … it doesn’t strike me as being filth anymore, Elmera. It strikes me as somehow … normal. Pleasurable, almost.”

  “Pleasurable?” trumpeted Lady Duck. “What in hell is pleasurable about grappling all night with that bloody Miggot?”

  “Who said anything about the Miggot?”

  Lady Duck snorted with outrage. “What’s gotten into everybody?” She stared around at the gathering. Everybody looked sheepishly at everybody else. “Bison, are you and I the only sane ones here?”

  He regarded her helplessly. “That seems against all the odds, my dear.” His eyes roamed among the crowd, seeking an ally; or failing that, at least a buttress of common sense. His eyes found Fang. “Fang will have an explanation,” he said confidently. “Spector could be wrong. Where are the signs of these stirrings, anyway? If there really were stirrings, everyone would be lying around together, groping and struggling like the giants do. But this is a very decorous gathering, I’m happy to say.” He smiled at the audience. “A typically gnomish gathering. I’m proud of you all.”

  Nobody smiled back, however. The gnomes wore oddly intense expressions. The Miggot said mildly, “You’re right, Bison.”

  “It’s a decorous gathering?”

  “No. Fang might have an explanation.”

  “Fang? Fang?” roared Lady Duck. “Fang’s the worst of the bloody lot! Fang and that Princess of his never think of anything else! Every morning they bear the scars of the night’s filth. The sunken eyes. The trembling hands. The nasty, sniggering chuckle. Their brains are corroded with lust and their bodies are going the same way. They spend their lives in mutual degradation, surrounded by the spawn of their evil doings!”

  “I say, that’s putting it a bit strongly, isn’t it?” Bison’s eyes returned to where Fang and the Princess stood holding hands.

  “They’re thinking about it right now. You can tell just by looking at them!”

  “Yes, but so’s everyone else. It’s the current topic of conversation.”

  “Well, I’m certainly not thinking about it. It’s the farthest thing from my mind, I can assure you!”

  “I don’t see how it can be, my dear.”

  “Are you contradicting me, Bison? Has the red rabbit gotten you too?”

  “Absolutely not. You need have no fear of that. I’m with you all the way, Lady. This thing has to be nipped in the bud.”

  “Then nip it in the bud, Bison.”

  Bison’s unhappiness was such that even this phrase seemed to have sexual overtones. Flustered, he faced the gnomes. “There is a suggestion—only a suggestion, mind—that a handful of gnomes among us have become afflicted with, um, um, giantish tendencies in the area of, um, um, repro—Well, you know what I mean. That’s the way it seems to me.”

  “That’s just what I said,” observed Spector coldly. “Except that I said it a damned sight more elegantly.”

  “Yes, but you don’t catch Bison using a word like loins,” retorted Lady Duck.

  “We’re wasting time!” cried Clubfoot Trimble, who had established meaningful eye contact with the female gnome opposite. “We’ve gone full circle! Let’s put it to the vote!”

  “Put what to the vote?” asked Lady Duck.

  “The issue!”

  Somewhat taken aback by the incisiveness of the normally bumbling Clubfoot, Lady Duck said, “What issue?”

  “Filth!” called somebody.

  “Don’t be ridiculous! How can we vote on filth?”

  “Just like any other vote. Whether we’re for it or against it!”

  And there was a roar of agreement.

  “You must refuse to put it to the meeting, Bison,” said Lady Duck. “These gnomes have become inflamed. I can’t answer for the consequences.”

  “A vote! A vote!” shouted the gnomes.

  “The democratic process, Bison,” called Spector.

  “Don’t do it, Bison,” warned Lady Duck. “It would be political suicide.”

  “I won’t do it!” roared Bison.

  But for once even Bison’s powerful voice was lost in the outcry. “Shame!” yelled the gnomes. “Resign!”

  “Resign?” said Bison, puzzled.

  “They’re challenging your leadership, Bison,” Lady Duc
k explained. “This is nothing less than an attempted coup. It’s Drexel Poxy all over again!”

  “A coup?” Bison considered the notion. The gnomes surged around the platform, yelling. “A coup?” The idea began to have its attractions. As he gazed at his milling followers he was struck by the unsavory resemblance they all bore to the Miggot; the furious little eyes, the thrusting beards. And in the case of the females, the thrusting breasts. It was the horror of this last image that decided him. “We will put it to the vote!” he bellowed.

  “You fool, Bison. You have forfeited your kingdom.”

  “Have I?” he said, feeling no sense of loss. The gnomes were all smiling now. “Who proposes the motion?” he asked. “You, Miggot?”

  The Miggot’s expression was crafty. He was well aware that he was the most unpopular gnome present, with the possible exception of the Gooligog. “Not me. Fang proposes the motion.”

  “Fang! Fang! Slayer of the Daggertooth!” cried the gnomes.

  “You have feet of clay, Bison,” said Lady Duck quietly. “The situation calls for a strong hand. I will speak on your behalf.” She stepped forward. The crowd fell politely silent. “Now listen to me, gnomes of Mara Zion,” she said. “This is a crossroads in the history of gnomedom. If ever a happentrack branched, then a happentrack will branch now. We are deciding the whole future of gnomehood, and if we decide wrongly, we will be casting away our history as though it had never happened. Let us not get carried away by the heat of the moment. Let us consider the Kikihuahua Examples, and the legacy that our great creators bequeathed us. Let us vote for Bison, who represents honesty and virtue and clean living. Let us vote for everything that is good; everything the word gnome stands for.

  “On the other hand,” she thundered, her expression stern, “we can vote for Fang and the degradation of the flesh, for the stuffing of every corner of the Earth with our kind so that our very children get trampled underfoot, for the perversion of unbridled, nightly filth. Bison is a fair-minded gnome and he offers you that choice. So vote, gnomes. Those who wish to walk the slippery slope to corruption, raise your hands—if you dare! Crawl out of your stinking holes and show yourselves, you scum!”