King of the Scepter'd Isle (Song of Earth) (36 page)

“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 Duck 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!”

A forest of gnomish hands shot skyward.

“Well, that wasn’t too bad,” observed Bison. “I think Old Crotchet is on our side.”

“Crotchet has arthritis, Bison,” Lady Duck explained quietly. “He can’t raise his arm above his shoulder. But never mind.” The battle lost, she smiled. “You can take a well-earned holiday from the cares of office. The fate of gnomedom rests in younger hands.”

“Fang! Fang!” roared the gnomes, hoisting their hero shoulder-high.

And an echoing cry came from the forest: “Fang! Fang!”

Startled, the gnomes nearly dropped the Slayer of the Daggertooth. “Who’s that?” Fang shouted, quickly assuming his role as spokesman for the forest gnomes.

“It’s us.”

“That sounds like Mold,” said the Miggot. “What the hell does he want?” A small flock of shytes could be seen circling above the treetops. “And the Gooligog. This looks like an official visit.”

“A resumption of diplomatic relations,” suggested Jack o’ the Warren. “That often happens on a change of leadership.”

“The news of the coup hasn’t had time to reach them yet, you fool,” snapped Lady Duck. “The truth is, they’ve come to resume diplomatic relations with King Bison. I only hope their disappointment won’t change their minds.”

“Are we sure we want diplomatic relations with Poxy?” asked Bison doubtfully.

“No!” cried the Miggot. “We bloody well don’t!” He faced the forest. “If there are any followers of Poxy in there, you can bugger off back to the beach right now! We have nothing to say to you!”

“We’re not
followers of Poxy,” said Mold, entering the clearing on foot with the Gooligog, Pong the Intrepid, Bart o’ Bodmin, and various other beach gnomes. “Poxy is a mere memory in the Gooligog’s mind, a sad chapter in gnomish history. Poxy was deposed last night, and I am the new leader of the beach gnomes. I intend to uphold the Kikihuahua Examples,” he assured them, “so far as is feasible.”

“That’s good news, Mold,” said Fang.

“I’ll go further. I believe the beach is an unsuitable place for gnomes to live. We’ve been dupes of the abominable Poxy for five years, but we are dupes no more. Our eyes were opened at Camelot.” He went on to describe Poxy’s perfidy, concluding, “And so Poxy rode north, back to where he came from, and his disciples, shamed, departed in all directions. We came back here where we belong.”

“How many of you?” asked the Miggot.

“A few. Twenty. Most of those who left five years ago. We were never Poxy’s gnomes, really. Our hearts were always here in the forest.”

“I moved back into the forest long ago,” explained the Gooligog.

“I never left my cave at the other end of the beach,” said Pong.

“And I only stayed in the village,” said Mold, “in order to gather evidence of Poxy’s wrongdoings.”

“And what about you, Bart?” asked the Miggot. “What’s your excuse?”

“I was one of Poxy’s dupes,” admitted Bart, glancing unhappily from gnome to gnome. “I throw myself on your mercy.”

“Begone!” shouted the Miggot. “Back to Bodmin where you belong!”

“I can’t go back to Bodmin. Poxy’s gone there.”

“Then go somewhere else, but never enter the forest of Mara Zion again!”

“I say, Miggot,” said Fang, “that’s a bit drastic, isn’t it?”

“He’s an
untrustworthy gnome, Fang. He tricked us from the start. He cost us six years of anger and despair!”

Elmera, faced with the difficult choice of siding with her husband or Fang, chose Fang. “Balderdash, Miggot! The last six years have been no different from any other! Your whole life has consisted of anger and despair!”

Miggot, staring at her furiously, became aware that her breasts jiggled in a fascinating manner when she was annoyed. It seemed to put a different complexion on things. His fury abated. “You’re right, Elmera,” he muttered. “I must watch myself.”

Amazed, she said, “I’m used to it.” Really, he was quite a handsome gnome when he was aroused, with the most arresting eyes. And he was probably the cleverest gnome there. People listened to him when he shouted. That was something to be proud of.

More was to come. There was a commotion in the forest: the sound of yelling and snapping twigs.

“That’s the remainder of our group,” said Mold. “They didn’t want to show themselves until our situation was resolved. They are proud gnomes.”

The noises approached, and suddenly the proud gnomes burst from the undergrowth in a solid phalanx, shouting excitedly.

“Welcome back,” said Fang.

“Speech!” shouted Lady Duck. “You must address your new empire in the proper manner, Fang. This is the occasion for a rousing speech!” She smiled at him broadly. She was always loyal to whoever was the gnomes’ leader, and she was incapable of bearing a grudge.

“A rousing speech!” chorused the gnomes, lifting Fang and setting him on a stump.

Fang regarded his people. “It’s good to see everybody together again,” he began. “And being the kind of gnomes we are, we’ll forget the past and treat the newcomers with understanding. We will set the moles to use and get the new dwellings built right away, and meanwhile I’m sure each of us will take a guest into his own home.”

He surveyed the
ex-beach gnomes. “A lot has happened in the past few years. We’ve had to adapt to the joining of happentracks and the arrival of giants. The giants are our friends, but that doesn’t mean gnomes must become humanized—as I’m sure the newcomers now realize. New customs have arisen to meet the changing circumstances. At Memorizing sessions, for instance, we’ve been taking more of an interest in our gnomish heritage.

“We’ve been hearing gnomish fables from the past, and learning gnomish poems. Perhaps I should take this opportunity to recite one of our favorites now. It’s short and easy to learn—and quite rewarding too.”

“A poem!” cried the newcomers happily. If Fang was going to teach them a poem, it meant they were accepted.

And, smiling at them blandly, Fang began:

“Arthur’s back at Camelot,” said Nyneve. “He arrived the night before last from Cirencester. He didn’t sleep with Gwen. But then last night they were going to have a party for him.”

“So he probably got boozed up and slept with her last night,” said Merlin. “Too bad, Nyneve. Isn’t it about time you forgot about him? You haven’t seen him for years.”

“I’ll never forget about him.”

“You’re twenty-one now. You’re a grown woman, Nyneve.”

“You’ve been telling me I’m a grown woman ever since I was thirteen years old, Merlin, you dirty old bugger. Jesus! I wish you were a cold fish like Avalona.” Nyneve appealed to her stepmother. “Why is it that you have no emotions, Avalona, and yet Merlin’s … Well, you know what
he’s
like.”

“I am a Dedo and Merlin is a Paragon.”

“But you’re both Fingers of Starquin.”

“I am a Finger.
Merlin is a mutation. An error. A chance male. They have their uses.” She regarded Nyneve thoughtfully. “The time has come to make certain adjustments to you, in order to get a correct balance of ifalong possibilities.”

“Stay away from me! I’m not so scared of you these days, Avalona!”

“I realize that, which is why I am going to point out the advantages of what I am going to do. Up to now you have merely been my handmaiden. But as of today, you will be a Dedo like myself.”

Nyneve felt her stomach knot up with horror. “But I don’t want to be a Dedo! I’m an ordinary girl and I want to stay that way!”

“When you are a Dedo, you will not age by human standards. As the years go by, you will still look like a girl of twenty-one. Arthur, being a human male, will appreciate that.”

“No!” Nyneve was crying with terror. “Dedos have no feelings!
You
have no feelings! What’s the point of living if I can’t love Arthur?”

“Listen to me, Nyneve. In less than one and a half millennia the human population of Earth will explode. Mara Zion will become a city as big as Cirencester. England will have hundreds of cities that size, and many others so big that you simply cannot imagine them. Humans will be everywhere, and forests like Mara Zion will be rare. In order for a Dedo to pass for a human, she will have to act like a human in every way.

“She will need human emotions. She will possess all the Dedos’ other characteristics, such as our sense of duty, and if necessary, these will override her human traits. But in all other respects she will, in effect, be a human. She will think like a human and feel like a human.

“An in human terms, she will be immortal. That is what the Dedo of the future will be. That is what I am offering you. There is a precedent. Morgan le Fay possesses such human emotions as suits her.”

There was a long silence.
“So I will still love Arthur?” said Nyneve at last.

“For the rest of your life,” said Avalona.

Nyneve walked; Avalona and Merlin rode the mule. They saw nobody as they made their way north through the forest twilight; no humans, no gnomes, no forest creatures.
It’s just as though we have a whole happentrack to ourselves,
thought Nyneve. She would not have put it past Avalona to arrange it that way, to make sure nothing went wrong on the journey.

Night had fallen by the time they reached the forest edge. The looming breast of Pentor rose before them, silvered by the full moon. Nyneve regarded the moon intently and saw, faintly, another orb overlapping. They
were
on a different happentrack. There were no humans on this world, no animals, nothing animate that might divert them from their course of action by causing happentracks to branch. They were riding to Pentor and nothing could stop them.

Avalona’s powers were immense and frightful, yet she looked like a little old lady perched ridiculously on the rump of a mule.

And soon,
thought Nyneve,
I will have powers like hers.
The realization shook her. She was quite certain she wouldn’t be able to handle it and that she would accidentally destroy the world, including Arthur and herself.

They leaned into the slope and plodded upward. The mule drew close and Avalona turned toward Nyneve, a pale face against the darkness. “With the change comes the power to deal with the responsibility,” she said, anticipating Nyneve’s thoughts as usual. “That is the difference between you and Merlin. If you remember, the last time we visited the Rock, Merlin failed to fulfill his responsibility, and he left it unguarded. That is the kind of behavior you will learn to expect from a Paragon. You remember the story of Siang the Paragon and the Thing-he-did? He mated with an ape and the result was the human race. That tells you everything you need to know about Paragons.”

They halted
beneath the granite cliff of Pentor Rock and dismounted. Avalona said, “This time you will remain here, Merlin; otherwise I will be forced to assume you are totally useless and will have to dispose of you.”

“Why are you talking to me like that? I’ve done nothing wrong!”