Elric Swords and Roses - Michael Moorcock [42]
“He has not left the Nation?”
“I gather that is not easily done, even by the likes of Gaynor.” There was suddenly an extra bitterness to her voice.
“It is forbidden?”
“Nothing,” she echoed sardonically, “is forbidden in the Gypsy Nation. Unless,” she added, “it is change of any kind!”
“Then why was the boy killed?”
“They tell me they know nothing about it. They told me they thought I was probably mistaken. They said they felt it was morbid to study the garbage heaps and think one saw things lurking in them. In short, as far as they are concerned, no boy was killed.”
“He was trying to escape, however. We both saw that. From what, my lady?”
“They will not say, Prince Elric. There are subjects forbidden by good manners, it seems. As in many societies, I suppose, where the very fundamentals of their existence are the subject of the deepest taboos. What is this terror of reality, I wonder, which plagues the human spirit?”
“I am not, at present, looking for the answers to such questions, madam,” said Elric, finding even the Rose’s speculations irritating after so much babble. “My own view is that we should leave Trollon and head back to the village which accepted the three sisters. Did they know the name?”
“Duntrollin. Odd that they should accept the sisters at all. They are some kind of warrior-order, I understand, pledged to the defense of the road and its travelers. The Gypsy Nation is comprised of thousands of such mobile cantons, each with its peculiar contribution to the whole. A dream of democratic perfection, one might suppose.”
“Were it not for the marching boards,” said Elric, disturbed, even now, to know that as he prepared himself for rest, the great platform on which all this existed was being pushed gradually forward by emaciated men, women and children.
He slept badly that night, though he was not plagued by his usual nightmares. And for that small mercy he was grateful.
Breakfasting in a common hall, still hygienically free of any sign of a real commoner, served by young women in peasant frocks who found their work amusing rather than arduous, like children in a play, the three friends again shared what little they had discovered.
“They never stop moving,” said Wheldrake. “The very thought is hideous to them. They believe their entire society will be destroyed if once they bring this vast caravan to a halt. So their hoi polloi, whatever their circumstances, push, with or without the help of horses, the villages on. And it is debtors and vagabonds and defaulters and creators of minor grievances who make up the throng walking on the road. These are, as it were, middle-class offenders of no great consequence. The fear of all is that they should join those at the marching boards and therefore lose their status and most chances of regaining it again. Their morals and their laws are based upon the rock, as it were, of perpetual motion. The boy wanted to stop walking, I gather, and there is only one rule where that is concerned—Move or Die. And Move Forward Always. I’ve lived in Gloriana’s age, and Victoria’s, and Elizabeth’s, yet never have I encountered quite such fascinating and original hypocrisies.”
“Are there no exceptions? Must everyone constantly move?” asked the Rose.
“There are no exceptions.” Wheldrake helped himself to a dish of mixed meats and cheeses. “I must say that their standard of cuisine is excellent. One becomes so grateful for such things. If you were ever, for instance, in Ripon and had a positive dislike of the pie, you would starve.” He poured himself a little light beer. “So we have our sisters. We believe Gaynor could be with them. We now need an invitation to Duntrollin, I take it. Which reminds me, why have they not asked you to give up your weapons? None here appears to sport a blade.”
“I think they might be our next means of earning a season or two away from the boards,” said Elric, who had also considered this. “They have no need to demand them. They will, they believe,