29. An Ending Of Sorts
WARNING: One reference to suicide. If such references are harmful to your health, please read with discretion.
Davies only knew that he had been decades in Mithlond because what little remained of his hair was now what charitable people called "salt-and-pepper", and because his knees and the joints of his fingers had taken to aching on dull, rainy days. Himelon looked as young and handsome as ever, and though he did not say a word, the old soldier knew that the changes worried him. One day, the ellon had suddenly taken Davies' hand in both of his, wondering at its passage into gnarliness. "Yes," Davies had said, "I am… becoming old. My hands are not what they used to be."
By then, he could speak Edhellen the way a man living for some time in France might have been able to speak in French. But Davies did not like that turn of phrase — "becoming old". It was foreign. A calque.
In Mithlond, the days were slow, but slipped by easily like prayer-beads through fingers. Davies and Himelon had found a west-facing apartment, joining the landlady below and two others for meals. Their mounts had been sent back to Imladris after around a year of sea-air, with a quiet apology for Glindir and a line of news, after it had become apparent to Davies after his long, foggy journey portwards that he would never want to see another horse again.
Apart from the horses, Davies found it difficult to remember most happenings of the first span of years in the west-facing apartment. The funk that had crept on him through the journey embraced him fully then… he was short and irritable… even serene Mithlond seemed busier than a billet teeming with muddy Tommies… He no longer joined Himelon and the others at table…
It had been a lonely time — Davies remembered that much. Himelon, restive, had taken up with the fishermen and only spent longer and longer at sea as Davies' presence grew intolerable.
One early morning, he was alone and awake. Himelon had spent the night at the nets. Inexplicably, he thought of Gertrude, and wanted her terribly; he wanted her cheerful practicality, the crackle of the fire in their grubby grate, Eva and Andrew's weight upon his lap… There was a an old scrap of parchment upon a table in the corner and a stub of candle — a stripped quill — ink — Davies somehow contrived to find a penknife and make up the pen —
Dearest Gertrude, Eva, Andrew,
I am here in Mithlond. It is quiet. I miss you all terribly. The jerney
"Jerney" did not seem right. Davies read through the two lines again and wracked his brains. Upon his word, how did one spell it? He knew that "jerney" was incorrect, but the right spelling eluded him, weaving tantalisingly through the threads of his thoughts. Could it be he was forgetting his English? He was forgetting his English. He could not spell journey because he was forgetting his English, stuck and alone in this foreign land that could not be escaped, not by cart, not by boat, not even by one of those aeroplanes of the Flying Corps —!
Davies had then put his aching head down on his arms, listening to the blood thumping furiously in his ears. All of a sudden, he felt very sorry for himself. The tears came with a sudden, sick wrench in his chest and spoiled the parchment, dripping all over Dearest Gertrude, Eva, Andrew and I miss you all terribly and It is quiet and jerney, until there was nothing left but a dark-purple splurge across the page. Not that Davies saw it. Foggily, he remembered that such letters would have no use, anyhow, and despair made itself acute.
Thornhill was gone. England was gone. He had not a soul in the world, unless Himelon counted. And at that moment, Himelon counted nothing at all.
The sun found him still bent over the table, sporadically heaving with the tears he should have wept in 1914. In France. By Thornhill's body.
It happened that later in the day, Davies remembered how to spell "journey", scraped the parchment, and began again. The letter was not effusive, but it was the longest he had ever written, barely legible for the cramped lines. He noticed that the sunset cast lovely colours onto the floor and the east wall. One letter became many, written at first by candlelight on nights when he could not sleep for inactivity. They made an untidy pile on the corner table and Davies had begun to source parchment on purpose, for he found over the passage of the seasons that he had begun to look forward to the ritual of writing the day's happenings — or lack of them — to his far-away family, by candlelight, as the sun diffused one last, weak glow across the sea and into the west-facing apartment.
He engaged in that same ritual now, perhaps less assiduously than before. Days began early with a turnabout in the streets, the salt air on his tongue. Days still felt like blanks that refused to be filled in. Himelon had eventually weaseled his way back into Davies' field of vision, and they had a habit of eating their evening meal together by the west window: simple messes of bread and fish. There had once been a time when the artistry of bread made by the Edhellen had given Davies a leap of pleasure, but now, it was just bread.
Such was life in Mithlond. It was a strange kind of life, if Davies could even call it that. It was life as if somebody had thrown a chintz curtain over it. Sometimes he wondered why he tolerated such a muffled life, and once he even remembered one unfortunate man — not a man, but a boy — he had found lifeless by the privies one afternoon, revolver in hand, with a hole in the back of his head.
On a long summer evening, while the sun lingered upon the sea as if reluctant to sink into its cold embrace, Himelon suddenly asked Davies if he had any hopes for the future.
"Future?"
"Surely, you do not want to stay here until the end of the world?"
"I will not stay so long."
"Where will you go?"
Davies paused for a minute, his chest heavy with vague unease, and countered the question with another. "And what are your hopes for the future?"
"I know not," sighed Himelon. "I had thought that I would do something great. But now, it seems as though there is nothing great left for me to do."
"Why?"
"The War is fought. Sauron is defeated. Elessar is King."
"What does that mean?"
"I did not fight. And now, there is nothing left to fight for. It is all secured." Himelon gestured at Mithlond and the sea. His hands were still long and fine, even if nets and ship-ropes left calluses on his palms. Davies looked at his own and flexed his fingers. "So," Himelon continued, "I think I may sail after all, by and by."
"Sail? Where to?"
"Across the Great Sea to the West, whither the gulls call me. But," and here he sighed again, "the last ship has sailed. I will need to make arrangements. I believe our landlady has been thinking of having a ship built."
"You're speaking in riddles."
During the silence that followed, the light began to thin, and Davies watched their shadows lengthen until they touched his bed in the corner. His eyes snapped to Himelon's meditative gaze. This gaze remained for a while, until it softened into something that might have been pity.
"You don't know, do you."
"Know what?"
"Sailing. Of course. You're a Man."
Dusk began in earnest, until Davies could barely see Himelon across the table from him. He yawned and remembered that he had nothing meaningful to do for the rest of the evening. Murmuring something about feeling tired, he stood up and went to throw himself upon his bed, leaving Himelon to bring the dishes down.
"Will you come with us?"
The offshore winds made tangled, floating chaos of Himelon's hair. There was an odd lustre to it that belied the cloudy day, but it would slip out of its plait. He stood just shy of the gangplank, clutching a saddlebag.
The ship had been built, and surprisingly quickly. There remained a few shipwrights in Mithlond and their industry had not decayed. It was a humble vessel, the cabin just large enough to house about four, and the captain. So, this is what he had meant about making arrangements, Davies thought, glancing away from Himelon at the long stretch of water that seemed to touch the sky as though the latter were an outer wall.
They hadn't discussed much about 'sailing' since the brief conversation over supper. Davies hadn't the energy to probe mysteries that he knew — somehow — were not for him to solve. Days and months and seasons had continued to pass, just as slowly and as easily as they had before, until one day Himelon had come along with him on his morning walk, bag in hand, and led him to the harbour.
Davies considered it. What would sailing mean? A fuzzy memory resurfaced of himself huddled below deck on a ferry of sorts, trying to ease his churning stomach. The rig bobbing in the harbour did not promise an easier voyage. And where would they sail? he asked.
"To the West," replied Himelon, having extracted a strand of hair from his mouth.
"What do you mean, West? Where? Or will you just drift until you die of hunger?"
"The Undying Lands."
"Undying…" Davies wanted to laugh. "You jest. What do you mean?"
The edhel turned his head to the ship, but not as though he were in a hurry to leave. Its bobbing seemed to suggest that the two of them could have stayed standing on the harbour for days, and the journey none the worse off for it.
"Himelon… are you coming back? From this voyage?"
"No, I am not. If you do not come with us, you will never see me again."
Suddenly, Davies understood, and the understanding made him take a step back. Himelon's face softened like that of a child who had abruptly and inexplicably upset its parents.
"It is not that I wish to leave you — it is just — oh, please, do not weep for me -"
"No, I understand." Davies' voice was blank and his eyes dry. "I understand. And I will not go with you."
"No?"
"I mustn't. I know how it is now. You must go ahead, and I must stay here."
A seagull wheeled overhead, keening, obviously in search of food. Davies' knees were stiff and sore, and he realised he had been locking them. He began to pace, methodically bending and flexing his legs.
"Béti?" Himelon's clear voice stopped Davies in his tracks. "Perhaps I don't have to leave yet. I do not want to let you remain here, alone…"
Davies looked his companion square in the eyes. Each protest made him firmer in his refusal, as that strange, fey knowledge took root in him. He watched as the same comprehension dawned in Himelon's eyes, as they roved over his face and took in the crags and lines that had not always been there — and then he spoke. "Good-bye, Himelon. A safe voyage to you."
Himelon, unable — or refusing? — to restrain his tears, offered his hand. Davies took it and shook firmly, but stepped back again when the edhel made to grasp his forearm. And then he turned away, walking back to the west-facing apartment more quickly than he had walked in all the seasons behind him.
Only in the apartment did he wonder what had come over him. The quiet was unsettling in a way it had never been. There was nobody to live in the entire house — no landlady — no fellow-boarders — and dimly, he wondered if he should be somehow evicted. Loneliness began to gnaw at him as he took in the single bed (Himelon had taken his pallet with him) and the table in the corner littered with scraps of parchment and old pens. No longer remembering quite why he had encouraged Himelon so firmly to go, Davies himself felt his eyes grow heavy with the slow tears he had begun to associate with ageing.
That evening, Davies decided on a whim that he would go out again, and absent-mindedly left the apartment with one of his letters in hand, for he had sat down again and written something while he took his tea. The tea had not tasted so insipid in years.
The air had a bite to it that had not been there in the morning, though the clouds had since parted to reveal a sun that suffused Mithlond in benevolent, golden light. It really seemed as though Davies were the only one left, for nobody else was about, and many houses had their shutters closed, their stoops unswept.
Deliberately, he made his way back to the harbour. Making his way to the end of the dock he sat down, his legs dangling over the edge like a boy's. The sunset seemed nearer here. Save for the broken beam of light it sent across to him, the sea was a grey mass that heaved and scintillated, resistant to the waning golden glow. The view was beautiful and almost wild in a way that Mithlond was not.
I never belonged here, Davies thought, hugging himself against the cooling air. I must have been here thirty years. But I have never grown to belong here, and neither had Himelon. He fiddled with his letter and brought it up to his eyes, which had also been growing bad of late. Dear Gertrude, Eva, and Andrew…
It was one of the briefer letters. Just two lines. Nothing in it of consequence. After a moment's regretful reflection, Davies let it drop into the water where it bobbed insolently and swiftly became illegible.
And for a while, he watched it, remembering. Memories trickled into his head one by one, as though lifted from rusty-hinged chests in an attic. The journey. Imladris. Thornhill. The war. Gertrude, Eva, and Andrew… Watching the scrap of parchment recede with the tide, Sergeant Albert Davies wondered if one day, he too would wake up and find himself on a ship. A ship to England.
FINIS.
Author's Note.
And thus Himelon is spared from the comprehension of mortality. Or is he? Take it as a somewhat philosophical ending if you will. This work has been prodding me in the back for a little while, and given the current circumstances, I thought it would be polite to try to tie off some loose ends and mark this as complete.
A.B.C.
