“What do you mean, you don’t believe in it?” asked Fang irritably, regretting his decision to stay the night. “I can prove it. I have jars of it at home. I’ll show you.”
“I don’t make myself clear,” said Pong.
“You must preserve an open mind if we want to convince gnomedom of the dangers facing us. Gnomes are skeptical. They’re quick to scoff. If you start coming up with odd statements like that they’ll think you’re as crazy as a Hayle gnome, and we’ll both be discredited.” In the feeble glow from the fire it seemed to Fang that Pong looked pink and furious. “So let’s hear no more about it,” said Fang.
A strained silence followed until Pong yawned, pointed out a pile of seaweed as a suitable bed for Fang, then climbed onto a shelf immediately above. “Good night, Fang,” he said coldly.
“Don’t roll off.”
Pong did not respond to this pleasantry, and was snoring gently within minutes. Fang lay awake, staring at the embers and wishing he were home. The events of the evening, coupled with the lack of his nighttime beer, combined to keep him alert. And when at last his eyes closed, he plunged immediately into a horrifying nightmare.
… It seemed he was fleeing through the forest on Thunderer, chased by a crowd of giants on horseback. The ground shook to the drum of pursuing hooves as he urged his mount to full gallop, hanging onto the rabbit’s ears and shouting, “Away Thunderer, away!”
“The lopster! The lopster!” came the hunting cry of the giants, roaring from a thousand throats.
Thunderer uttered a despairing scream and tumbled end over end. Fang, still grasping dream ears, awakened in the chilly cave to find that he had dragged Pong from his shelf by the ankles.
“I knew it! I knew it” Pong was sobbing. “He’s got me this time.”
“It’s me, Fang!”
“It’s the lopster!”
“Wake up, Pong! You’re dreaming! Everything’s all right.”
“Is that really you, Fang?”
“Of course it is.”
“Then why are you holding my ankles?”
“You were kicking. I was restraining you,” explained Fang quickly.
Pong climbed back onto his shelf. “I’ll thank you to keep your hands off me in future, Fang,” he said with quiet dignity. “I am not a gnome who goes in for touching and all that kind of thing. I live alone and I like it that way.”
“I’m sorry.” Fang spent the rest of the night scared to close his eyes, and by the time daylight sieved through the cracks in Pong’s door, his head was spinning with exhaustion.
It was probably tiredness that allowed him to become sidetracked the next morning when they found the Miggot and Spector the Thinking Gnome engaged in philosophical debate near the mushroom ring.
Instead of enlisting their support over the matter of the umbra, Fang found himself listening to a string of complaints from Pong.
“And last night was a misunderstanding, I grant you,” Pong was saying, “but it could have been the lopster. That’s all I’m saying. It could have been. So I’d like you to deal with the brute, Miggot, before it’s too late.”
“Why does everyone think I’m responsible for every wild animal in Mara Zion?” snarled the Miggot, although secretly flattered. He would dearly loved to have created a creature so fearsome as the lopster.
“Because you usually are, Miggot.”
“There is such a thing as natural evolution,” said the Miggot loftily. The long history of the gnomes, not to mention their long individual lifespans, had taught them much about the structure of life. “I think you’ll find that the lopster is there simply because it’s the most successful creature in its local environment.”
“I can vouch for its success,” said Pong with feeling.
Now Spector leaned forward and peered deeply into Pong’s eyes. “What are you really frightened of, Pong?”
“The lopster. And I’ll thank you and the Miggot to keep it to yourselves, Spector. This is a privileged conversation.” Pong the Intrepid had a reputation to maintain.
“I put it to you that the lopster is a creation of your own fevered imagination. Animals are simple, gentle creatures, and they will normally run at the sight of a gnome.”
“With me and the lopster, it’s the other way around, Spector.”
“Look at Fang here. He slew the daggertooth. He’s a violent gnome, subject to uncontrollable lusts. It is we, the gnomes, who are the aggressors. We, with our weapons and our complex desires.”
“I thought we were supposed to be kind and good.”
“That, too.” Spector’s burning eyes bored into Pong’s mild ones. “Forget the lopster, Pong. The lopster exists only in your mind. Get to the root of your fears. Put yourself inside your own body. Face your enemy, and the fear will go. What are you really afraid of?”
“Amputation,” quavered Pong.
“Aha!” cried Spector in triumph. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Amputation. That’s a very understandable fear that might affect any gnome. And I expect you’ve invented a basis for this fear, too. This lopster, I expect you’ve credited it with huge snappers, to lop off your arms. That’s why you call it the lopster.”
“Legs. The lopster goes for the legs, or at the very least, the toes.” Pong blinked and looked away as Spector’s stare became too hot to handle. “And anyway,” he added, “it’s the Miggot that gave it the snappers, not me. It’s the Miggot that’s in charge of the Sharan!” His voice rose.
“The Miggot told you he never created the brute. It’s all in your mind, Pong. You have nothing to fear but fear itself!”
“That and the lopster.”
“Pong,” said Spector sadly, dropping his gaze, “all this is beside the point, and you know it. Think. Why did you come this morning?”
“Because of the umbra!” cried Fang quickly, before the psychological discussion could sink into deeper waters. “There have been fresh developments, Miggot!” He went on to describe the incident of the previous evening, finishing up, “So there’s no doubt at all, now. The umbra is upon us!”
The Miggot eyed them searchingly for a moment, then came to a decision. “We must meet with King Bison. This is a matter of serious import.” He called to Pan, who was sitting on a nearby branch, “Bring Bison here, will you? And round up some of the others!”
Pan swung reluctantly to the ground and departed, muttering to himself. “What good will Bison do?” asked Pong.
“Bison is our leader,” said Spector. “So he must be present. It is proper. If we degenerate into a rabble at this time of crisis, where will we be?”
The gnomes settled down on the grass to await Bison, and the Miggot handed round a jug. It was a pleasant morning, and there seemed to be little activity in the umbra, for which they were thankful.
“Beer,” said Fang significantly, glancing at Pong. “Good.”
Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Fang passed the jug to Spector and voiced the grievance he’d been nursing for some minutes. “What do you mean, subject to uncontrollable lusts?” he asked the Thinking Gnome.
“I meant blood lust of course, Fang. What other kind of lust is there?”
“None that I know of,” said Fang quickly. “But why ‘uncontrollable’?”
Spector waved the jug airily. “A figure of speech, Fang. I often express my meaning by figures of speech. I meant that in a time of crisis you will act instinctively, ignoring the Examples. You are acknowledged to be a heroic gnome, which is why you bear the name of Fang.”
“Oh, I see.” And he puffed his chest out, while Spector watched the results of his words shrewdly.
But Fang’s days of fame and honor were coming to an end. The instrument of his downfall would be the curious creature Pan, who was at that moment trudging through the forest in a mood of smoldering resentment. Pan considered himself a unique being with unearthly powers—as indeed he was—and not a mere lackey of the Miggot—as the Miggot considered him to be. Muttering to himself, Pa
n called on the more influential members of gnomedom and sent them to the mushroom ring.
So by the time Fang’s downfall took place, there were more than enough gnomes present to witness it. The only saving factor about the whole sorry incident was that his father the Gooligog was not there.
As with most gnomish meetings, it proved difficult to get the discussion on track. An omen had recently appeared to the gnomes, and was still the principal topic of any discussion. A few days ago, with harsh cries and a flapping of bright wings, a woodypecker had taken up residence in gnomedom and had proceeded to appall the little people with its antics.
“For whom does the woodypecker dance?” Clubfoot Trimble had asked, glancing uneasily at his wife.
“Not for us, that’s for sure,” Trish had reassured him, confident that they’d done their duty to the race, and were now safely beyond the years of childbearing.
The woodypecker had flapped on by, screeching.
This peculiar bird was the outcome of an experiment in the distant past, when an infestation of beetles had threatened to reduce the forest to sawdust. Pan and the Sharan had been pressed into service and had produced a bird that fed voraciously on beetles. The crisis was averted, but the woodypecker did not go away.
Instead, it became guilty of unsavory behavior around the forest. For some reason it was permanently in heat—a fact distressingly obvious when the male of the species flapped into view.
Legend tells that the gnomes responsible for its creation, in their haste, had snatched a bird at the peak of its mating display and fed it, squawking, to the Sharan. The kikihuahuas insist that this is genetically improbable, however.
“It’s just a cruel trick of fate,” the Miggot said, absolving his charge.
Over the generations, the woodypecker had become a symbol of all that was bad about sex, all that was unclean. On rare occasions of gnomish feud it was used as a curse: “May the woodypecker dwell with you forever!”
Its appearances were fortunately rare, and were taken as a sign that somebody in the forest was due to mate.
Now, as the gnomes settled themselves on the grass, Clubfoot bewailed the appearance of the grotesque bird, describing its antics while his audience groaned in disgust and Fang waited impatiently to speak his piece.
After a while it became noticeable that King Bison and Lady Duck were so quiet that Clubfoot’s words seemed to bounce off them like echoes. Finally Clubfoot said, “What’s wrong with you two?”
“The woodypecker danced for us,” said King Bison dully.
“Ah.” They all nodded their sympathy.
“We’ve decided to do it tonight,” said Lady Duck. “It’s best to get it over with. I couldn’t stand it hanging over our heads.”
“I’d rather suffer from a wild wart,” said Bison, mentioning a particularly unpleasant gnomish malady.
The gnomes preserved a respectful silence while they relived their own memories of distasteful nocturnal struggles, doing their duty. Fang decided this was not an opportune moment to break his news.
“Sex is a terrible thing,” said the Miggot at last.
“A terrible, terrible thing,” agreed Lady Duck.
“It’s just awful,” said the Miggot.
Old Crotchet, who had often known the horrors of copulation, spoke up. “And yet the giants do it all the time. I’ve watched them. They lie down behind bushes and do it. They pull off their armor and do it. They jump off their horses and do it—it seems to be a compulsion. Even their horses do it.” His eyes were wide. “It’s an awesome spectacle.”
“I could almost feel sorry for them,” said Trish.
“They’re always fighting, too,” said Bison. “It’s the violence of it all that scares me.”
“Maybe they need to have sex often because they kill each other so often,” suggested the Miggot. “It’s necessary for the survival of their species.”
“I think it’s the other way around,” said Bison. “They actually—don’t laugh—they enjoy sex. In some weird way. So they have to kill each other to keep the population down.”
“Makes sense,” mumbled old Crotchet.
“I’ve seen them mating while they’re singing, and while they’re on quests. And while their eating, fighting and thatching roofs,” said King Bison recklessly. “I don’t think there’s any activity where they can’t fit in sex somewhere. They do it all the time, grasping and thrusting. It’s perverted! By the Great Grasshopper, I hope the umbra doesn’t come any closer!”
This was Fang’s opportunity. Jumping to his feet at a nod from the Miggot, he began, “This was what I wanted to tell you all.”
Meanwhile, the seeds of his destruction were being sown at the back of the clearing. The elfin Pan, often brooding and resentful, had been listening to the gnomes complaining about sex, and had become furious. The stupid little people didn’t know how lucky they were. His mind seething with spite, he stormed off back to his cave and began to communicate with the Sharan.
“We have new facts about the umbra!” announced Fang, back at the clearing.
He lost his audience immediately. The gnomes had been forced to worry about the umbra only a few days ago, and they were heartily sick of the subject.
“Bugger the umbra!” Clubfoot shouted. “Let’s have a party.” And for once the gnomes listened to him.
“A party!” they chorused. “A party!”
“Do you have plenty of beer, Miggot?” Lady Duck asked.
“The umbra,” snapped the Miggot. “We must consider the umbra.”
“Oh, forget the silly old umbra!” shouted his wife. “You’re a miserable old devil, Miggot, and you always were!”
“Last night I saw two giants mating!” yelled Fang.
There were cries of outrage. They’d had enough of that unwholesome topic, too. “Hayle! Hayle!” called Lady Duck.
“It’s nothing to do with Hayle!” Fang shouted back. “You were happy enough to talk about sex a moment ago!”
Invoking Hayle is a peculiarly gnomish concept. It is used in discussion of topics that individuals might find interesting and amusing, but that society as a whole finds crass and reprehensible.
In a group of up to five gnomes, it is perfectly in order to make obscene jokes about toilets, for example. But if the group is any larger, the talk must become serious if it deals with toilets at all, the propriety of which is dubious.
The practice took its name from a group of gnomes living at Hayle in Cornwall. Every Mara Zion gnome knew that Hayle gnomes were weird, in an inoffensive kind of way. They did stupid things like dyeing their caps blue and worshipping rhubarb. They were not very bright; that was the truth of the matter. It was socially acceptable for Mara Zion gnomes, in groups of up to five, to point this out to one another, and to tell jokes about Hayle gnomes.
“How does a Hayle gnome mount his rabbit?” Fang once asked an audience consisting of Clubfoot Trimble, the Miggot of One, Spector and King Bison.
Exactly at that moment, old Crotchet had ambled onto the scene, increasing the group to six gnomes.
“He mounts it the same way as you or I would,” continued Fang smoothly, as though nothing had happened, “although he will often use a beautifully tooled bark saddle, because Hayle gnomes are noted for the excellence of their craftsmanship. We can learn a lot from Hayle culture.”
A serious discussion then followed on the merits of Hayle gnomes: their dexterity, their love of animals, and above all their intelligence which was at least the equal of Mara Zion gnomes. The apparently blue caps were probably a trick of the light due to the abnormally sunny skies of Hayle, and everybody knew that rhubarb was good for the bowels. …
“I invoke Hayle!” thundered Bison.
Fang, who had been explaining to a deaf audience the monstrous yet intricate aspects of giantish sexual congress, fell dismally silent. When Bison thundered, the gnomes paid attention. That was what a leader was for. After all, Bison’s booing voice had been instrumental in his ele
ction. He may not have been the smartest gnome in Mara Zion, but it was impossible to argue against him. When Bison invoked Hayle, Hayle stayed invoked.
“… pumping and pounding.” Fang’s last words drifted off into the forest.
And like an echo from a cavern, an answering pounding came from somewhere in the trees. The gnomes pricked up their ears and glanced around nervously. As the sound grew louder, it became discernible as a menacing rumble. The gnomes jumped to their feet and milled around uncertainly, looking for a lead from someone.
The lead came from the Miggot. “It’s the Sharan!” he shouted. “She’s bolted again! She’s coming this way! Spread out across the clearing, gnomes!”
“Spread out!” boomed Bison.
“Dive for the legs!” instructed the Miggot. “Bring her down!”
The gnomes spread out tentatively. There was a fearsome power apparent in that drumming of hooves, and it seemed they could feel the very ground shake.
“Suppose it’s a horse!” cried Lady Duck. “Suppose the umbra is here! What was it you were trying to tell us, Fang?”
“A horse … A horse …” The murmur passed from gnome to gnome, and they began to edge toward the trees, leaving Fang standing alone in the center of the clearing.
“I heard the giants,” he said. “That’s what I was trying to tell you. But you wouldn’t listen.”
“There you are, you see!” screamed Lady Duck. “He heard the giants!” She retreated rapidly into the undergrowth.
“The giants are coming! The giants are coming!” The gnomes scuttled for cover.
“It’s the Sharan, you fools!” shouted the Miggot. “The warble flies have got to her again! Hold your ground! Here she comes!”
A later era would have likened the Sharan to a runaway express train as she rounded a curve in the path and roared toward the gnomes, head down, legs going like pistons. The gnomes melted away before her charge, leaving Fang alone, uncertain which way to run. The Sharan came on, muscles rippling beneath the pale coat. Her eyes were a bloodshot crimson, her nostrils snorted foam, drool sprayed from her jaws, and her single horn pointed accurately at Fang’s private parts.
Fang, the Gnome (Song of Earth) Page 12