Free King of the Scepter'd Isle (Song of Earth) by Michael G. Coney Page B

stamped irritably toward them, birds circling low over his head.
    “If the shytes only feed on carrion, why are they following the Gooligog?” asked Pan triumphantly.
    “The Gooligog’s time must be near,” the Miggot explained. “The stench of death is upon him.”
    The Gooligog joined them, kicking aside a shyte that hopped before him like a pallbearer. “This is a macabre situation, Miggot,” he shouted, “and I want something done about it. One of the bastards landed on my head this morning. By the Sword of Agni, they’re worse than that bloody housemouse of mine!”
    “I thought you’d come to terms with the housemouse, Father,” said Fang. “And anyway, wasn’t he drowned when your burrow flooded out?”
    “He escaped and followed me, the faithful bastard. He was with me last night.” The shytes were not the only carrion-eating creatures in gnomedom. Elderly gnomes traditionally kept housemice in their dwellings, to clean up when they died. “I saw him standing there in the moonlight, trembling,” said the Gooligog. “He’s getting old too. I’m going to outlast the brute, mark my words. But not unless you call off these bloody shytes, Miggot. A while back I sat down under a tree to contemplate, and the buggers were all around me in an instant! Have you ever smelled a shyte’s breath?” He lashed out with a gnarled stick, catching a bird squarely in the rib cage and bowling it squawking across the clearing, shedding feathers.
    “I don’t thinkmy father’s going to die yet, Miggot,” said Fang mildly. “He seems very spry to me. The shytes have got it wrong.”
    “They know,” said Bart o’ Bodmin wisely. “They know.”
    “The laws of nature,” murmured Spector. “And the balance of life. The moles are born, the Memorizer dies.”
    “Well, I’m not dead yet,” snapped the Gooligog, “and I’ll thank you not to anticipate the happy event, Miggot. So where are these moles? People are getting impatient back in the forest.”
    “You see those holes?” The Miggot pointed. “That’s where the moles are. You’re welcome to go down and fetch them, Gooligog. Bart tells us kindness will bring them out.”
    “It would be unwise to follow a flesh-eating creature down its hole,” Spector warned him. “I can visualize an occasion when it might not respond to kindness.”
    “Thongs are the only way,” Bart agreed.
    The ensuing discussion lasted until nightfall, by which time the gnomes had made their way back to the blasted oak. Probably the only practical suggestion came from Fang: “We could wait until the moles abandon their holes, and then move in.”
    “Rebuild gnomedom at the whim of burrowing animals?” cried Lady Duck. “What kind of credibility does that give us in the forest?”
    “We must discuss priorities,” said Spector the Thinking Gnome. “That would be the logical thing to do next, with only two moles. Then, when we’ve found a way to put the moles to work, we will have a plan of action all mapped out.”
    “It seems to me,” said the Miggot, “that the first burrow to be dug should be some kind of community gathering place.”
    “Absolutely!” shouted Clubfoot.
    There was a murmur of agreement and the gnomes found themselves nodding at one another wisely. It was several seconds before the first screams of dissent were heard.
    “Nonsense!” criedElmera.
    “Forget it, Miggot!” roared Lady Duck. “If you see rebuilding Tom Grog’s disgusting drinking hole as a major priority, then you’re a more selfish and stupid gnome than I thought. We need places to live, not stinking burrows where male gnomes drink themselves senseless!”
    Tom Grog, a polite and pleasant gnome, said quickly, “You’re welcome at the Disgusting anytime, Lady Duck. So is Elmera, even. If more females used my establishment, it would be a much happier place. It’s hard for a gnome to be doing his job according to the rules of his guild, and yet find half of gnomedom against