King of the Scepter'd Isle (Song of Earth) (23 page)

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 that 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.”

“What do you mean, composing himself?” In Miggot-like fashion, Fang grabbed the Thinking Gnome by the lapels. “Composing himself for
what?”

The Miggot himself arrived at that moment. “Nobody informed me of this meeting,” he said, staring around accusingly. “What kind of leadership is this, Bison?”

“Composing himself for the inevitable, as must we all.”

“We
all
must? I’m a couple of hundred years away from composing myself, Spector, you damned fool,” said the Miggot, rapidly grasping the flow of conversation.

“All dead,” said Jack sadly, recalling the original purpose of his visit. “Every one of them dead.”

“Nobody’s dead,” said the Miggot firmly. “And if they were, it would be perfectly acceptable. Gnomes live, gnomes die. The young are strong, the middle-aged are clever, but the old are stupid and feeble and must be gotten rid of. Death is good. If it wasn’t for death, we’d be knee-deep in senile gnomes, whimpering and babbling like the Gooligog. The same applies to all living creatures.”

“It doesn’t apply to the rabbits, Miggot. They were in the prime of life.”

“That’s why they’re not dead, Jack.”

“But they
are
dead, Miggot.”

The Miggot eyed him closely. “By the Great Grasshopper, it’s bad enough with Spector talking garbage. Don’t you start, Jack.”

Fang said loudly and clearly, “A giant and a dog broke into the rabbit enclosure this afternoon. They killed all the rabbits.”

“I knew it,” said Poxy. “It was bound to happen.”

The other gnomes had been stunned into silence, but now a chorus of questions arose. “What giant? What dog? What do you mean, killed all the rabbits?” Others began to drift into the clearing,
obeying that mysterious forest instinct that alerts gnomes when something interesting is afoot. “What enclosure? When? Why?”

Drexel Poxy leapt astride his steed, dominating the throng. “The giants have slaughtered our string of riding rabbits, just as I warned you they would. They have immobilized us!”

Bart o’ Bodmin, newly arrived, cried, “The Gnome from the North speaks!”

The Gnome from the North speaks
. … The words traveled from gnome to gnome, into the forest.

“He foretold it, and now it’s come to pass!” yelled Bart. Gnomes nodded at one another. They should have listened to the Gnome from the North sooner. The Gnome from the North had mysterious powers. Everything he’d said was coming true.

“I don’t remember Poxy foretelling anything,” Fang remarked to the Miggot.

“Hush,” somebody said. “The Gnome from the North is about to speak again.”

“Fang’s right!” shouted the Miggot. “That bastard never foretold a bloody thing!”

“Hush!” cried a score of voices.

“This is our darkest hour!” shouted Bart o’ Bodmin.

“Our darkest hour,” droned the gnomes obediently.

“Our darkest hour was weeks ago!” yelled the Miggot, purple with frustration. “What’s gotten into you all? Our darkest hour was when Tom Grog got himself squashed and the beer ran out. We all agreed on that!”

“Our darkest hour!” roared Poxy in a voice worthy of Bison himself. “And it could have been prevented, because we were warned. The giants have reduced us to mere crawlers on the forest floor, little better than toads. Alas! Alas!”

“Alas!” cried the gnomes.

“But all is not lost!”

“Aha!” chorused the gnomes hopefully.

“What’s happened to them?” asked Fang. “What’s he doing to them?” Drexel Poxy seemed to have gained in stature as he sat
astride his white rabbit, holding his cap aloft, exposing a balding, freckled pate and raking the throng with blazing eyes.

“Mass hypnosis,” said Spector, standing near. “It’s a giantish practice. I’ve never heard of it used on gnomes.”

“Our salvation lies south!” bellowed Poxy, pointing with his cap.

“South!” cried the gnomes.

“What’s the answer, Spector?” asked Fang, alarmed. “What shall we do?”

“South!” shouted Spector, eyes fixed raptly on the Gnome from the North.

“Miggot?”

“I don’t know.” For once the feisty little gnome was at a loss. “He’s got them in the palm of his hand, Fang. He seems to be able to do anything he wants with them.”

“The Gnome from the North will lead us south,” cried Bart o’ Bodmin, “as it was foretold!”

Help came unexpectedly.

“Like h-hell he will!” It was Bison, making his stand in obedience to a ferocious prodding from Lady Duck.

“Do you defy the Gnome from the North?” asked Bart incredulously.

Bison hung his head. Lady Duck shouldered him aside. “You’re damned right he does,” she roared. “And you can forget the Gnome from the North stuff too. His name’s Drexel Poxy, and that ought to tell you something. Look at him! A dirty little gnome on a blind rabbit. When did he last comb his beard? If you can call it a beard. It looks more like trailing moss to me!”