King of the Scepter'd Isle (Song of Earth) (7 page)

“And while I’m wearing the scabbard, I’ll never be wounded,” added the man, unsheathing the blade.

It glittered in the new sunlight like a polished mirror.

“By God!” shouted Ned Palomides. “It’s Excalibur!”

“Excalibur!” echoed the men, urging their horses forward.

“You bastard!” said Palomides, sliding from his horse and drawing his own blade. “You’ve defiled the memory of Tristan! Excalibur was to have remained at the bottom of the Lake of Avalon until the end of Time! On guard!” He struck a hostile pose.

“Easy, Ned,” warned Torre. “You know what Excalibur can do. And anyway, you were talking about shallow water yourself, only a moment ago.”

“I am a Mara Zion man,” said Palomides with dignity, “so I have more right to Excalibur than this carroty fool. Hand it over, fellow!”

“Don’t try to make me,” said the stranger quietly.

“God damn it!” blustered Palomides, thrusting clumsily. “You’re in a lot of trouble, stranger!”

“Ned! Stop that!”

A young girl came running down the path, long black hair tossing down around her shoulders. Darkly beautiful, she wore an emerald-green dress with a leather belt. A murmur arose from the men. “It’s Nyneve,” somebody said. “Jesus Christ, she looks better every time I see her.”

Palomides seemed to puff up at the sight of her. He swung mightily with his sword. His opponent stepped aside and allowed the blade to thud into a stout elm.

“I’d leave it there if I were you,” said the stranger, watching Palomides trying to jerk the sword free.

“I’m … going … to get you, you bastard. Aha!” The elm released
the blade. Palomides, off-balance, sat down heavily.

“Stay there, Ned,” said Nyneve, arriving breathlessly. “You don’t want to get hurt, do you?”

“What’s all this about, Nyneve?” asked Torre. “Who is this fellow?”

She smiled, savoring the moment. She looked into the blue eyes of the stranger, and the love in her own eyes was so naked that the men shifted and coughed in embarrassment.

“This fellow?” she said, her face glowing. “Oh, this fellow is Arthur.”

After a while, time seemed to start moving again.

“Arthur?” echoed Torre. “What do you mean, Arthur?”

“That’s his name.”

“A coincidence, of course,” said Governayle. “There must be dozens of Arthurs in Cornwall.”

“I’m sure there are,” said Nyneve sweetly. “But this is
the
Arthur.”

“Let me get this straight,” said Torre. “For a long time now, Nyneve, you’ve been telling us stories about a mythical crowd of people ruled by a fellow called King Arthur. And that’s all they were—story-people. Certainly you managed to make the stories sound convincing. I could
see
the events in my own head while you were talking. King Arthur, the Knights of the Round Table, the battles, the tournaments—hell, Tristan was so impressed, he even had our own round table set up in the village. But it wasn’t real. We always said that. It was just a dream. A great dream, but a dream nevertheless. Wasn’t it?”

“It wasn’t a dream, Torre.”

“Not a dream?” There was an apprehensive murmur from the men. Arthur’s empire had been vast and powerful. And although the principles of chivalry on which it was founded seemed sound, an awful lot of men had died upholding or opposing them. Nyneve’s story-world had been a glorious and a violent
one. It was fun, but they’d been secretly glad it wasn’t real.

“It’s true enough,” Nyneve confirmed, “and this
is
Arthur.”

“Pardon me,” said Torre to the stranger, “but you look too young to be Arthur.”

There was a muttering of agreement from the others. This man, although of handsome bearing, did not live up to the almost godlike image of the fictional Arthur. Probably nobody could have. The Mara Zion men scowled at the pretender, annoyed that anyone should try to detract from the glorious dream of Camelot. “The man’s a bloody fraud,” said Palomides. “He’s fooled you, Nyneve. We should run him out of the forest.”

Nyneve said quickly, “Let me explain it the way Merlin and Avalona explained it to me. You’ve heard of happentracks?”

“Happentracks?” They looked at her blankly.

“Different streams of time. Haven’t you ever wondered what might have happened in the future if you’d done something differently today? Well, maybe there’s another you somewhere in time, living another life because you
did
do that thing differently. According to Avalona, new happentracks are splitting off all the time. Whenever somebody makes an important choice, off branches a happentrack where they made a different decision. And that begins a whole new alternative world. See what I mean?”

“I think so,” said Torre doubtfully. “But where
are
these happentracks?”

She waved a hand uncertainly, encompassing the men, the forest, the sky. “Everywhere. Right here. Avalona found Arthur and his people on a happentrack quite close to ours. She felt it might be useful to some mysterious purpose of hers—you know what she’s like.”

They nodded. They knew what Avalona was like: a black-clad figure, pale-faced with eyes hard as stones, stalking silently around the forest on missions known only to herself. What they didn’t know was how the young and vivacious Nyneve could bear
to live with Avalona and her senile companion, Merlin.

“She thinks Arthur’s happentrack branched off only a few centuries ago. So a lot of the people on that happentrack are the same as on this.”

“You’re trying to tell me there’s a Palomides in Arthur’s world?” asked Ned. “There’s another me?”

“There was, I expect.”

“
Was?
” Mara Zion people were nothing if not superstitious, and Nyneve’s emphasis brought an expression of alarm to Ned’s face.

“Well, Arthur’s happentrack has rejoined ours. That kind of thing happens occasionally. So the other Ned and you are both the same person now.”

“If that’s the case,” said Ned shrewdly, “I’d have a whole lot of new memories. But I don’t. So you’re talking nonsense.”

“You wouldn’t
know
you have new memories. They’d seem like old memories.”

“Makes sense,” said Governayle, coming to Nyneve’s rescue. “But it doesn’t explain why this fellow you call Arthur is so young. The Arthur in your stories must have been forty years old by the time he died.”

“Avalona explained that. She said happentracks don’t have to be simultaneous. Arthur’s joined us in an earlier time in his life, that’s all.”

“But …” This was too much even for Torre. “If that was true, we’d know exactly what was going to happen to him, because you’ve told us in your stories. He’s going to be the king of all England, and he’s going to marry Guinevere, and all that stuff. But we could change all that right now, simply by killing him. So I’m with Ned for once, Nyneve. You’re talking nonsense.”

“But you won’t kill him, Torre,” said the girl quietly.

“But I could.”

“But you won’t.”

They stared at each other. “By God, I will!” shouted Torre, drawing his sword. Then he remembered and sheathed it. “He has Excalibur,” he said heavily.

“
Exactly.”

“But if he didn’t … ?”

“But he does. Don’t worry about it, Torre. The time will come when you won’t even dream of killing Arthur. And remember, the stories I told you all happened on a different happentrack. There’s no reason why they should happen exactly the same on
this
happentrack.”

And if they’d been astute enough, they’d have noticed her flush slightly. On
this
happentrack, she was determined, there would be no marriage to Guinevere. … “And then there are the gnomes,” she said hastily. “At least I can prove
them. “

“The gnomes? What have they got to do with anything?”

“They were on a different happentrack too. Now they’ve joined us, just like Arthur. …”

“She shouldn’t have said that,” observed the Miggot of One.

“Why not?” asked Fang, whispering too. “We can hardly hide from the giants forever.”

The two gnomes watched the humans from under a rhododendron. In recognition of their precarious situation they had left their scarlet caps at home and wore gray flat hats, brown jackets, and pants. This effectively blended with their surroundings but left them depressed. They stared miserably from the giants to each other, deposited by fate in a strange and violent happentrack. Their only friend among the giantish humans was Nyneve.

“Anyway,” said the Miggot, “it’s time we got back to the Sharan. She will shortly give birth.”

The thought of attending the unicorn’s labor did not appeal to Fang. “Do you really need me?”

“No,” said the Miggot. “But it’s your duty as leader of the Mara Zion gnomes.”

“Am I still the leader?”

“Of course. Why not?”

“Well. …” said
Fang diffidently, “I thought perhaps now things are settling down, Bison could take over again. I never felt comfortable about deposing him, actually, Miggot. I felt I’d been guilty of some sort of coup.”

“Coup? I’d say Bison abdicated. He couldn’t take the heat. As a leader, he’s finished. A dead issue.”

“Oh, all right, if you say so. I’ll continue on a temporary basis, until Bison recovers his, uh, vitality.”

“Come on,” said the Miggot impatiently.

The gnomes wriggled carefully backward from under the bush; then scuttled away through the undergrowth. The paths were strange and they lost their way many times. By the time they reached the blasted oak where the rest of the Mara Zion gnomes had hidden themselves, it was mid-afternoon.

“I wish we’d chosen somewhere else for the camp,” observed Fang as the blackened branches came into view through the surrounding, intact foliage.

“It’s an excellent spot, Fang,” said the Miggot, who had chosen it.

“Don’t you think there’s something … pessimistic about it? I mean, a
blasted oak?”

“You’ve been listening to Spector too much,” snapped the Miggot. “It’s a tree, not a symbol. And the roots provide good cover.”

“It’s Fang and the Miggot!” came a joyful cry. “They’re back!”

The gnomes rushed from concealment and greeted the pair, pumping their hands, slapping them on the back.

“Well done, Fang!” cried the Princess of the Willow Tree, hugging him tightly.

“The spirit of gnomedom is not dead,” announced Spector the Thinking Gnome.

“So did you see Nyneve and Arthur? What did they say?” asked King Bison. “Did you arrange a suitable area of the forest for founding the new gnomedom? Has Arthur instructed the rest of the giants to let us live our lives in peace?” There was an unaccustomed acidity in Bison’s voice. As the gnomes’
recently deposed leader, he was beginning to feel the loss of authority.

“Well, not exactly,” admitted Fang.

“Not exactly what?”

“Not exactly any of those things. We saw Nyneve and Arthur, yes. But a crowd of giants were there and things weren’t going too well. It didn’t seem wise to show ourselves.”

“Not wise?” echoed the Gooligog, Fang’s father and the Mara Zion Memorizer. “But up at the lake, Arthur assured us he would protect us! ‘So long as I’m alive, no harm will come to you gnomes.’ Those were his exact words. Are you saying Arthur lied?”

“No, Father. He meant what he said. The only trouble is, the other giants don’t accept him.”

“But he’s Arthur! He’s destined to be King of England, according to Nyneve. How can they not accept him?”

The Miggot helped Fang out. “Obviously there must be certain formalities before Arthur can sit on the throne.”

“Formalities? Like what?”

“Like conquering the rest of England, you fool,” snapped the Miggot, losing patience. “You know how giantish society works. It’s not like gnomedom. Giants have to fight for what they get. You’ve seen them doing it often enough in the umbra.’

“So what are we going to do?”

“What we intended to do. Rebuild gnomedom. We’ll just have to exercise a little caution, that’s all. We’ll maintain a low profile until Arthur’s influence spreads. Then we’ll emerge triumphantly from hiding and take our rightful place as important members of the forest community.”

“I’m damned if
I’ll
go into hiding,” said the Gooligog. “Gnomes have never hidden in my memory.” The Gooligog’s memory went back many thousands of years. “It’s demeaning, expecting us to—”

A crashing in the bushes cut him short. He bolted for cover, ignoring the demeaning aspect for the sake of expediency. The rest of the gnomes followed, concealing themselves among
the decaying roots of the oak. They waited fearfully as the snapping of twigs and the rustle of leaves came closer. “You see what I mean?” whispered the Gooligog to his companion in hiding.

“What’s that you say?” yelled old Crotchet, who was deaf.

The forest fell suddenly silent. Then: “Is that gnomes?” came a shout.

The voice was a gnomish piping, rather than a giantish roar. “It is gnomes!” Fang shouted back. “Who is that?”

“It’s Jack o’ the Warren and Pong! And Bart o’ Bodmin!”

The gnomes emerged from cover and greeted one another. Bart introduced himself Such a meeting of gnomes would normally have been an occasion for feasting, but food was scarce and beer was nonexistent in this inhospitable new world. So the gnomes contented themselves with sitting around the base of the blasted oak and nibbling on raw mushrooms.

“Would it be safe to light a fire?” Pong asked after a while.

“Kindle the Wrath of Agni, you mean?” exclaimed Bart. “But that’s against the Kikihuahua Examples!
I will not kill any mortal creature
,” he began to recite unctuously. “
I will not work any malleable substance. I will not kindle the Wrath of Agni. In this way I will take a step toward living in accord with my world and
—”

“Yes, we know all that stuff,” said the Miggot impatiently. “And we don’t kindle the Wrath of Agni. Broyle the Blaze does it for us. He’s accepted eternal damnation. I see you’re wearing a brass belt buckle. That’s a malleable substance, wrought by the Accursed Gnomes. You’re a bloody hypocrite, Bart o’ Bodmin.”

“We don’t light fires in Bodmin,” muttered Bart stubbornly.

“We do here,” said Fang shortly, throwing sticks into a heap. There was something about Bart that he didn’t quite like, and it worried
him to see Pong fooled by this suspect gnome. “Kindle the Wrath of Agni, Broyle!”