Revenge of the Rose by Michael Moorcock Page A

comfortably upon
their benches and tell patronizing jokes about a variety of non-gypsy peoples,
including, of course, Wheldrake’s own, while Elric’s strange appearance soon
gets him nicknamed “the Ermine,” which he accepts with the equanimity with
which he accepts all other names presented by those who find him unnatural and
disturbing. He bides his time with a patience that has become almost physical,
as if it is a shell he can strap around himself, to make himself wait. He knows
he has but to draw Stormbringer for a minute and six gypsies would lie, drained
of life and soul, upon the stained boards of the inn; but also, perhaps that
the Rose would die, or Wheldrake, for Stormbringer is not always satisfied
merely with the lives of enemies. And because he is an adept, and no other
person here, at the roaring edge of the world, has any inkling of his power, he
smiles a little to himself. And if the gypsies take it for a placatory grin and
tell him he’s thin enough to wipe out a whole warren-full of rabbits, then he
cares not. He is Elric of Melniboné, prince of ruins, last of his line, and he
seeks the receptacle of his dead father’s soul. He is a Melnibonéan and he
draws upon this atavistic pride for all the strength it can give him,
remembering the almost sensuous joy that came with the assumption of his
superiority over all other creatures, natural and supernatural, and it armours
him, though it brings back, too sharply, the pain in memory.
                 Meanwhile
Wheldrake is teaching four of the gypsies a song with a noisy and vulgar
chorus. The Rose engages the landlord in a discussion of the menu. He offers
them rabbit couscous. It is all he has. She accepts it on their behalf, they
eat as much of the food as they can bear, then retire to a mephitic loft where
they sleep as best they can while a variety of bugs and small vermin search
across their bodies for some worthwhile morsel, and find little. Elric’s blood
is never lusted after by insects.
                 Next
morning, before the others wake, Elric creeps down to the kitchen and finds the
water-tub, crumbling a little dragon’s venom into a tankard, and muffling his
own shrieks as the stuff punishes each corpuscle, each cell and atom of his
being, and then his strength and arrogance return. He can almost feel the wings
beating on his body, bearing him up into the skies where his dragon brothers
wait for him. A dragon-song comes to his lips but he stifles that, too. He
wishes to learn, not to draw attention to himself. It is the only way he can
discover the whereabouts of his father’s soul.
                 The
other two find their traveling companion in jovial humour when they come down,
already grinning at a joke concerning a famished ferret and a rabbit—the
gypsies have a wealth of such bucolic reference, a constant source of amusement
to them.
                 Elric’s
attempts at similar banter leave them puzzled, but when Wheldrake joins in with
a string of stories concerning sheep and jackboots, the ice is thoroughly
broken. By the time they ride towards the west cliff and the causeway, the
gypsies have decided they are acceptable enough companions and assure them that
they will be more than welcome in the Gypsy Nation.
                 “ Hark, hark, the dogs do bark, ” warbles
Wheldrake, still with his mug of breakfast porter in his hand as he leans upon
his saddle and admires the grandeur of it all. “To tell you the truth of the
matter, Prince Elric, I was growing a little bored with Putney. Though there
was some talk of moving to Barnes.”
                 “They
are unsavoury places, then?” says Elric, happy to make ordinary conversation as
they ride. “Full of sour magic and so forth?”
                 “Worse,”
says Wheldrake, “they are South of the
River . I believe now I was writing too much. There is little else to do in
Putney. Crisis is the true