King of the Scepter'd Isle (Song of Earth) (40 page)

Fang forced his way through and pulled the adversaries apart. “What do you think you’re doing?” he cried, outraged. “You’re behaving like giants!”

Spector rose to his feet, unabashed. “I feel good. I’ve wanted to punch the Miggot on his stupid pointed nose for two hundred years, and now I’ve bloody well done it. It’s a catharsis. I feel a cleaner gnome.”

“Violence never solved anything!” Fang was sick with horror. Since the sexual block had been removed fifteen years ago, the gnomes’ behavior had gradually become more giantish. Perhaps this was why they all had to die—because they were no longer gnomes, and no longer able to fulfill their function on Earth. Certainly their numbers had increased, but now they were failing in a different way. “And why have you taken to brewing beer, Spector?”

“Clubfoot charges too much. I’m undercutting him. Give me a year and I’ll starve the bastard out of business.”

Fang was appalled. The very concept of money had been unknown in gnomedom fifteen years ago. It had only come into being as
a convenient medium of exchange until things settled down again and the refugee beach gnomes found their feet. Barter, and the obligation to return a favor, had been the gnomes’ way in the past. Now it had all changed, and money—the giantish coin—had become an end in itself. It had happened so gradually that nobody had noticed.

“But Clubfoot is a member of the Brewer’s Guild! There’s only supposed to be one brewer in each settlement! The secrets are shared among guild members only!”

There was an unpleasant smile on Spector’s face. “Secrets can be unsecreted. I’ve unsecreted Clubfoot’s brew.”

Now Clubfoot joined in. “You’ve been snooping around my cellars!”

“The forest is free for all,” said Spector airily, “and guilds have outlived their usefulness. They stifle trade. In these difficult times, competition is the name of the game, Fang. And always remember this—it was the Miggot who first usurped Broyle the Blaze by lighting his own fires. Gnomes must be free to pursue whatever trade they wish. Otherwise, what are all our children going to do when they grow up? Wander off into the bush to be eaten by wolves?”

“But what does all that have to do with punching the Miggot on the nose?”

“It was a visual symbol of the new freedom we gnomes have found,” said Spector. “It was an uplifting experience, and I am now a more rounded and complete gnome. Given similar circumstances”—he stared at the gathering with glittering eyes—”I’d do it again.”

And astonishingly someone shouted, “The Miggot had it coming.”

There was a roar of agreement. “Spector! Spector!” they shouted.

“A simple act of violence,” said the Thinking Gnome, “has freed us from the bonds of the Miggot’s unspeakable personality. Actions speak louder than words, gnomes!”

“Do you realize what you’re doing, Spector?” said Fang urgently, as the gnomes cast around for something to act on. “You’re changing the whole structure of gnomedom! Nobody will
respect anyone for their intelligence anymore! Our leaders will be the gnomes with the strongest arms!”

But Spector’s eyes were glazed and fervid. “I happen to have a good right cross.” He climbed onto a stump. “Gnomes!” he shouted.

As the Thinking Gnome began a powerful and impassioned speech, the Princess joined Fang. Putting her arms around Fang’s neck, she whispered in his ear, “I think you ought to tell the Miggot.”

“Tell him?”

“He’s your best friend.”

“The Miggot is?” The emptiness of his social life came sharply home to Fang. “I suppose he is, really,” he said, amazed and depressed. At some point in his life, he thought, he would have liked to make a real friend, a companionable and compatible friend to whom he would reveal his hopes and dreams and innermost thoughts. He and the friend, thought Fang, would sit side by side with their backs against the bole of a giant elm, warmed by the summer sun, drinking beer and exchanging views on gnomedom, talking slowly and nodding wisely in agreement from time to time. The friend would never interrupt him. The friend would be about his size, and similar in general build. His beard, perhaps, would be a little bushier, and his eyes would gleam with trustworthiness. That was what a friend was. Instead he had the Miggot.

He took the Miggot by the arm. The Miggot looked at his hand suspiciously. “Miggot,” he said, “you and I have been friends for a long time.”

“Friends?”

“We’re going to take a long walk, and we’re going to talk. I have very important things to tell you.”

A glimmer of interest showed in the Miggot’s piggy little eyes. “Things that have a considerable impact on the future of gnomedom as we know it?” he asked hopefully.

“You could say that, Miggot.”

*  *  *

“Move to
Camelot?” said Elaine. She walked to the cottage door and looked out over the gray sea of autumn, whipped into spikes by the east wind.

“It won’t be so lonely. There’s lots of servants in the castle, and a village around it.” Galahad became aware that he was pleading. “Lancelot wants you.”

“Leave Trevarron Isle? I’ve lived here all my life.”

“So have I. There are other places in the world just as pleasant. Camelot is one.”

She was still doubtful. “What exactly would my status be?”

“Well, the same as here, of course.”

She laughed bitterly. “You’re still only a child, Galahad. It would
not
be the same at Camelot, because there would be a lot of people watching me and trying to work out exactly where I fitted in. Lance would never marry me, you know that.”

“Surely he would.”

“You’ve known him as long as I have, my dear, and you know he’s peculiar in some ways. He sees himself as a complete and perfect individual. If he was married, he would have to share. That would make him less than complete.”

“He’s a good man. He’s treated me like a son all these years.”

There was a long silence. A gull landed on a nearby fence post and watched them with a yellow and hungry eye. At last Elaine said, “That’s because he’s your father.”

“What!”

“Lance didn’t live with us because he loved me, you know. He came on a whim, and he stayed when I told him who you are.”

He found his knees were trembling, and hoped it was the cold of the east wind. He was a soldier, not a weakling. “You told him who I am?” he repeated steadily. “I thought I was your son. My father was a Norman soldier who didn’t come back. I’ve always despised him.”

“My son died. I buried him up on the ridge. Soon after ward the gnomes brought you to me. You were just a baby, and about the same age.”

“The gnomes?” He
was incredulous.

“They explained. It was difficult for me to understand—they have some strange ways. They said you were the son of Lancelot. And I wasn’t in a state to ask questions—I wanted a baby so much. When I told Lance, he seemed to understand what the gnomes had done. He knows them better than I do. I wish I knew who your mother was, though. Often I’ve suspected it might be Queen Guinevere.”

He put an arm around her. “I’d rather think it was you.”

“And that’s another reason I could never live at Camelot with Lance. Queen Guinevere wouldn’t like it. Whenever I visited Mara Zion, I used to hear about her and Lance, and they tell me she can be quite vindictive. I’m safer here, Galahad.”

“Guinevere’s gone to London with Sir Mordred, Mother.”

She stared at him, astonished. “With Arthur hardly cold?”

“There have been a lot of changes since the battle.”

Suddenly Elaine laughed. “There have been no changes here on Trevarron Isle, Galahad. The land and the sea will always be here. Saxon, Briton, Norman, Celt—it’s all the same to my pasture and my sheep. That’s the real reason I’m staying here.”

Galahad sighed. “I know what you mean. It’s going to take me a long time to get used to Saxon rule.”

When he arrived back at the mainland, even the beach looked alien to his prejudiced eye. The pebbles seemed sharper, and there was a lanky, dead albatross at the high-water mark. The forest looked somehow sinister, as though foreign animals might lurk there. He found himself remembering things people had told him, about how there used to be three moons in the sky, and how strange it was when the happentracks joined.

He walked north, along the forest path.

The ghosts of chivalry seemed to be everywhere. He heard phantom armies clashing, Irish shouting.
The woodland birds squeaked like armor, and somewhere an animal cried like a wounded man. He walked on, wondering, and came to an open place where the grass was worn with frequent footsteps. Around a large rectangular rock there was no grass at all. He found a slot in the top of the rock, and the rusting remains of an anvil bearing the words:

And for a while he regarded it, and pictured the scene of long ago. There were no performing bears in his imaginings, and all the knights looked like Lancelot. Then he walked on.

He came at last to a large building with the roof half fallen in, and moss growing on the aging timbers. The doorway was now an arch open to the sky, and grass grew through cracks in the floor. In the center of the floor was a pit that had been a cellar until the joists collapsed. He stood on the edge of the pit and looked down. Seeing a huge circular table down there, he descended a flight of steps to get a closer look. The ghosts of the past seemed very strong here.

He sat at the bench that surrounded the table.

For a while he rested and wondered what life was going to be like under the Saxons and King Mordred.

His eyes must have closed, because he suddenly had the feeling that time had passed, and the afternoon was turning into evening. He ought to be getting on. He would spend the night in Mara Zion, collect his horse, and be in Camelot by noon tomorrow. How would Lancelot react to Elaine’s decision?

“A lot of things started here.”

The voice was so tiny that for a moment he thought it had spoken in his mind like that strange voice Lancelot and he had heard during the battle of Camlann. Then he became aware that he was not alone. Two small figures stood above him, looking down into the cellar. They started with alarm when they saw him, so he waved a reassuring hand.

“Hello.
”

“Oh, it’s only a giant,” said Fang.

“Come on down.”

Fang and the Miggot descended the cellar steps and climbed onto the table. They both looked exceptionally gloomy and well attuned to Galahad’s own mood..

“Can’t you read?” said the Miggot sharply.

“What?” Galahad regarded the gnome, surprised.

“Look where you’re sitting.”

“What about it?”

“That’s the Hot Seat,” said the Miggot reprovingly, pointing to the carved letters that Galahad hadn’t noticed. “This all happened before your time, of course. But when this table was built, Merlin said that seat was reserved for a perfect knight. If anyone else sat there, he would die a grim and horrible death.” There was no mistaking the gusto in the Miggot’s voice. “And the prophesy came true. Baron Menheniot died in that seat.”

Galahad smiled. “But perhaps I’m a perfect knight.”

“Who are you, anyway?”

“My name is Galahad. Who are you?”

But they were regarding him in surprise. “Galahad from Trevarron Isle? Galahad who’s Lancelot’s son? That Galahad?”

“I don’t know of any other.”

Fang and the Miggot exchanged significant glances. “
That
Galahad,” said the Miggot.

“Well, he can’t help us now,” said Fang. “The situation’s gotten beyond Galahad, I’m afraid.”

“What situation?” They looked so despondent standing there that Galahad felt an overwhelming desire to help.

Fang explained everything.

It took a long time. When he’d finished, Galahad said, “But it might not happen. Tomorrow might simply go by like any
other day, and you’ll all still be alive. I don’t see any reason why you should die.”

“There’s no doubt,” said Fang sadly. “You have to be part kikihuahua to understand, but there’s really no doubt, Galahad. I can feel it in my very cells.”

“Fang,” said the Miggot quietly, “he
is
part kikihuahua. He has the Princess’s genes.”

“Oh, yes. It had slipped my mind.”

“There’s something else that’s slipped your mind. Just try recalling what Merlin said at Arthur’s wedding feast, about the Hot Seat.”

Fang closed his eyes. “It’s reserved for a knight who hasn’t yet been born. He will shine like the rising sun above all other knights, and he will champion the oppressed.”

“And remember, Fang, Galahad hadn’t been born at that time. Now, what did Merlin say next?”

“He will champion the gnomes, and will have the knowledge to lead them from the brink of disaster into a place of milk and honey.”

“Would you describe this day as the brink of disaster, Fang?”

“Of course I would. It’s as brinkish as you can get. Would you please stop asking me questions and get to the point?”

The Miggot turned to Galahad. “You are the perfect knight. You must lead us from the brink of disaster.”

Galahad looked perplexed. “I wish I knew how.”

“You have the knowledge,” said the Miggot firmly.

“Do I?”

Fang belatedly realized what the Miggot was getting at. “Have you ever tried to remember things about gnomish history?”

“No. How could I do that?”

“I’ll tell you how.”

And Fang explained the technique. The Miggot dozed off within an hour, which meant he never did learn the Memorizer’s Apothegm. But as the sacred words became established in Galahad’s mind, it was like a curtain being drawn aside. He searched his newfound memories. Not even a Memorizer’s memories are perfect,
and he discovered things that Fang had forgotten, or perhaps never had known.

By nightfall he knew what he had to do.

The sun lifted over the rim of the sea, tipping the jagged waves with crimson. The Mara Zion gnomes, tired after their night’s journey, lay on the sand. Pan, awed by the occasion into showing some sense of responsibility, kept a careful watch over the Sharan. Nyneve and Galahad stood with Fang, the Miggot, and Pong, watching the sun wash the cliff’s face with light.