King of the Scepter'd Isle (Song of Earth) (6 page)

“You’re right.” Pong concealed a gulp of fear by clearing his throat, then said, “Bring us two of your finest rabbits, Jack, and we’ll be on our way.” And surprisingly, his spirits began to rise at the thought of a new purpose.

“Rabbits?”

“To ride on. You have a string of good riding stock. I wouldn’t go to anyone else for a rabbit.”

Jack sighed. “I’ve given the matter a lot of thought, Pong, and I’ve decided I’m going to come clean. I’m going to tell
one gnome the truth, and that gnome is you. I have to share the burden I’ve carried all these years, but it must go no further than you, Pong.”

“But Bart’s here. He’ll share your burden too.”

“That’s all right, because Bart was never deceived by the bogus rabbits.”

“What bogus rabbits are you talking about, Jack?”

“The rabbits I never had,” said Jack o’ the Warren sadly.

“But your string of riding rabbits was famous throughout gnomedom!” cried Pong.

“Their fame was undeserved. I never had any rabbits. I never kept them in a fenced compound safe from moon-dogs, and I never bred them, carefully selecting the fastest and strongest as instructed by the Miggot. It was all a big lie. Oh!” cried Jack happily. “You don’t know how good it makes me feel, to tell someone this. I’m free at last. I’m going to tell people my rabbits disappeared along with gnomedom as we knew it, Pong, and I’m trusting you to do the same. And you, Bart.”

“Of course.” Pong stared at Jack, bewildered. Another part of gnomedom was gone. The Warren string of riding rabbits had turned out to be a phantom existing only in the minds of gnomes. Was nothing real anymore? The riding rabbits were part of gnomish history. They had been committed to memory by the Gooligog, the gnomish Memorizer. The great Thunderer, Fang’s rabbit who had been a leading figure in the Slaying of the Daggertooth, had supposedly been bred by Jack. Was Thunderer real, or was the whole episode of the Daggertooth another myth? “What rabbits have we been riding all these years?” he asked.

“When anyone’s needed a rabbit, I’ve always given them my own. And then I’ve gone out and trapped one for myself, and trained it. Have you ever tried to train a rabbit? They don’t
want
to be trained, you know. Not really. I bear many scars.”

“But … why?” asked Pong helplessly. “How did this all happen? Everybody thought you had rabbits.”

“No. It was my father who had rabbits.”

“But he bequeathed them to you, surely?”

“He never had the chance. When he got old and feeble, they overthrew him.”

“Overthrew him?”

“I never found out the full details. The day I went to discuss it with him, he was gone. His housemouse was sitting there alone, licking its lips. The rabbits had left a couple of days previously. So I never inherited the string.”

“But why did we all think you had?”

“It was that damned Miggot’s fault.”

“I hardly think you can blame the Miggot for a fraud on this scale, Jack.”

“One day the Miggot said to me, ‘How’s Boots’s cough?’ Boots was one of my father’s rabbits; a big, lazy fellow. And the Miggot stared down his nose at me with those terrible eyes of his. And I said, ‘Fine.’ That was all. Just ‘Fine.’ There was no
intent to deceive. Perhaps I didn’t want to soil the memory of my father. Perhaps I was scared of the Miggot and didn’t want to get involved in lengthy explanations. ‘Fine,’ I said. And that single bloody word doomed me to a lifetime of falsehood.

“Because Bison said the next day, ‘I hear Boots is better. That’s good. And has Helen had her babies yet?’ I was trapped. I told Bison that Helen had had six babies: three brown, two black, and a yellow one that had unfortunately been born with only three legs, but that I was keeping it because it wouldn’t be able to survive in the outside world. And Bison said my sentiments were a credit to me.

“It grew from then on. Many’s the time I almost told people that some dreadful disease had swept through the string, leaving no rabbit alive. But I didn’t, because I knew they’d expect me to found another string, and I couldn’t go through the effort of inventing a whole new bunch of rabbits when I’d gotten to know the existing ones so well. There was Loppy, who was fussy about eating dandelions. There was Chopper, a sad rabbit who’d been leader of the string until he was deposed by William, who smelled funny. There was—”

“That’s all right, Jack. You don’t have to tell us any more. We understand,” said Pong.

“
I
don’t understand,” snapped Bart. “I’ve never heard of such weakness. And what is it about this Miggot that you’re all frightened of, anyway?”

“You’ll understand when you meet the Miggot,” said Jack. “If you ever meet the Miggot. Well, thanks to the Miggot, we’ve got to walk all the way to the Lake of Avalon.”

Pong thought it a little unfair to blame the Miggot for that, too, but he didn’t say anything.

“And, anyway,” said Jack quietly to Pong a short while later, “I’m better off without real rabbits. Have you ever watched rabbits together, Pong? They’re filthy buggers. Utterly without shame. How my father could live with all that filth happening on his very doorstep, I’ll never know!”

S
O IT
WAS THAT THE THREE GNOMES SAT ON A
hillside overlooking the Lake of Avalon and witnessed the event that was to change the history of the world.

The sun was trying to shoulder its way through ragged clouds and a light mist felt its way along the shore. A large crowd of humans were leaving the beach, making their way slowly southeast where the moors descended into the forest of Mara Zion. A few were slumped on horseback. Others walked with bowed heads and dragging feet like a defeated team.

If they had looked back, they’d have seen a narrow, black boat sliding out of the mist and moving slowly toward the shore. Three people sat in the boat: an old woman dressed all in black, a man in gleaming armor, and a girl with a mass of dark hair.

“That’s Nyneve,” said Pong.“She’s the friendly giant.”

“Well, just don’t call out to her,” said Bart. “She’s outnumbered down there.”

“The old woman’s Avalona,” added Pong. “But who the man giant is I’ve no idea. I’ve never seen him in the umbra.”

“He looks cleaner than your average giant,” said Jack.

The boat was directly below the hillside on which the gnomes sat. They could see the occupants clearly as the bow scrunched onto the pebbles and the male giant jumped lightly ashore.
He lifted the women out. First Avalona; and either the man was very strong or the woman was very light, because he plucked her from the boat with no more effort than plucking a blade of grass. Next Nyneve; and she was a solid, well-built girl. He held on to her longer, and kissed her as he set her on the beach.

“There you are, you see,” said Jack. “Sex again. They never think of anything else. Next thing they’ll be on the ground, pulling the clothes off each other.”

“I don’t think so,” said Pong. “They hardly ever have sex when there’s more than two of them present. It’s like a giantish version of Hayle.” Hayle was a gnomish custom. It recognized that certain topics of conversation—such as the foolish nature of gnomes from Hayle—could be very funny when discussed in a group of up to four gnomes, but in bad taste in larger gatherings.

The three giants stood there for a moment. The sun came out and the man’s hair glowed an astonishingly bright red. He bent and removed his boots, then paddled back into the lake. The watchers heard him yell with anguish at the coldness of the water. For a while he seemed to be searching, stooped over and peering down as he waded farther from the shore. Then he uttered a cry, and his hand plunged into the water up to the shoulder.

He brought a sword to the surface. Staring at it, he regained the beach. He brandished it, and the sun sparkled from the wet, polished blade like a stab of lightning. He gave a joyful shout. The words carried clearly to the gnomes on the hillside.

“A man could have some fun with a sword like this!”

Bart groaned. “Just like all the giants. When it’s not sex, it’s fighting.”

Pong wasn’t so sure. “But there’s something different about that giant. … Do you sense it, Jack?”

The keeper of bogus rabbits said wonderingly, “If I didn’t know better, I’d say there was something
good
about him.”

They watched while Avalona walked away alone, along the beach.
“Look there!” said Bart suddenly. “Aren’t those gnomes? They’d better get out of sight of the giants!”

“Nyneve wouldn’t hurt them.” Pong watched as the giants knelt before the gnomes and a conversation took place. “Let’s get over there and find out what’s going on. I think that’s Fang there, and some of the Mara Zion gnomes. It looks as though they’re free again. We don’t need to rescue them, after all,” he said, relieved but a little disappointed.

“Hey, gnomes!” shouted Bart, but the group was too far away to hear. Then the giants stood and the gnomes scuttled off southward. “Too late,” said Pong.

“Now what do we do?” asked Bart.

“Find something to eat,” suggested Jack. “I think I saw some mushrooms back there.”

A great leader had died.

A group of his followers rode despondently from the Lake of Avalon into the forest of Mara Zion. A fine rain sieved through the trees, sitting in little globules on those who kept their armor polished (such as Torre), and dribbling in rusty streams down those who did not (such as Palomides).

“What I’ll never understand,” Palomides said, breaking the silence at last, “is why you threw Tristan’s sword into the lake, Torre. That was the act of a fool.”

“He commanded me.”

“A somewhat selfish command, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“It was his deathbed wish.” Torre began to get irritated. “Would you deny Tristan his deathbed wish?”

“If he behaves like a dog in the manger, yes. I could have used that sword myself. It would have been easy enough for you to have hidden it behind a bush. He was in no condition to know what was going on.”

“He thought that an arm clad in white samite would rise from the lake, catch the sword, wave it three times, and draw it beneath the surface.”

“And did an arm do these things?”

“Well,
no,” admitted Torre, “it didn’t. I must say, I really didn’t think it would.”

He reined his mount to a shambling halt and the others followed suit. An important moment had come. The village was only a mile away, and it was necessary to come to terms with the situation before facing the women who had taken a different route home. The women would be viewing the death of the great Tristan from a sentimental standpoint. It was up to the men to take the practical view.

If they could agree upon what the practical view was.

Palomides spoke first. Sitting a little taller in his saddle and gazing from man to man, he said, “There is a new spirit abroad in the forest of Mara Zion.”

They responded with cries of outrage. “How can you say that?” asked Governayle hotly. “Our leader is hardly cold yet. Have you no respect?”

“I didn’t say it was a
better
spirit,” said Palomides quickly, realizing he’d misjudged the mood of his audience. “I said it was a
new
spirit. A sadder spirit. We are downcast at the loss of our late, great leader. However, every cloud has its silver lining. Excalibur lies in shallow water.”

“Will you stop talking about the sword!” shouted Torre.

“You’ll be talking about the sword soon enough, when the Baron moves in and takes over.”

There was a moment’s thoughtful silence. “The Baron was at the funeral,” somebody said. “He didn’t seem unduly depressed.”

“He was overjoyed,” said Palomides. “Our strong man was dead. And remember, it was the Baron who killed him.”

“I’ve been wondering about that,” said Torre. “I thought Tristan was supposed to be invincible with the sword Excalibur in his hand. Yet the Baron defeated him.”

“He was tricked into using a different sword, as I understand it,” said Governayle sadly.

“He got carried away with the idea of his own omnipotence,” said Palomides. “He’d begun to believe he was King Arthur himself, straight out of those stupid stories Nyneve tells. He
was trying to make the stories come true! He saw himself as King Tristan of all England. That’s why he started babbling on about the arm in white samite. Don’t you remember, that was supposed to happen when King Arthur died? Well, it didn’t happen to Tristan. He was no mythical king. He was just an ordinary mortal like us. A villager from Mara Zion. Do you know why he was always so eager to jump off his horse and fight on foot, man to man? Hemorrhoids.”

“You’ve gone too far, Ned,” said Torre grimly. “Draw your sword!”

“Is that your answer to everything? My God, Torre, I—”

“Hush!” said Governayle. “Somebody’s coming.”

They became silent while the rain fell steadily, muffling the forest sounds. Then they heard it, too: the rhythmic jangle of a man in armor walking. Soon they could see him through the trees, approaching on a converging course from the west. Torre and Palomides urged their horses forward to a confluence of forest paths.

“Who is he?” asked Palomides.

“I’m damned if I know. He’s a stranger around these parts.”

The newcomer was unusually tall. His bearing was aristocratic, although, Torre guessed, he was still in his twenties. He wore no helmet and his hair was a fiery red. He saw them, paused, and smiled. The eyes were blue, the nose straight, the chin firm.

“I don’t like the look of this fellow,” whispered Palomides.

“Halt, stranger!” called Torre. “By what right do you walk the paths of our forest?”

The man looked surprised. “Do I need a right? The forest is free to everyone, surely? I’m just passing through. I mean no harm.”

“Then why are you armed?” asked Palomides. “Is that a sword you’re wearing, or am I seeing things?”

“It’s a sword, true enough,” admitted the stranger with a disarming grin.
“It’s a hell of a sword. With this sword in my hand, I will never be defeated in battle, so I’m told. That’s a lot more than you can say for your average sword.”

The words were strangely familiar. Torre swung from his saddle and peered at the weapon. “Just draw that thing for a moment, will you? I’d like to take a closer look.”