CHAPTER 5: GARDENING/ STORMCROW RAMPANT

Tamar had begun to suspect that this was coming. In fact, for the last few days she had been expecting, almost anticipating this moment. There were so many pointers, tinier than grains of sand, but just as formidable when added togther. A word, a brush, a raised eyebrow… It all added up to this moment.

Earlier, they had returned from town – his first exposure to it. She had bought more clothes for him, and food for Chulainn and themselves. Then she had decided to cut the trip short when the stres began to appear around his mouth and eyes in tiny pale lines. When they had arrived home, after a drive on which a great many explanations were attempted (How does one explain electricity? Or the scanner in the supermarket? Or tinned pineapple from Australia?), he dressed himself in his new clothes (a pair of second hand jeans and an old navy issue scarf from the thrift shop, and a new sweatshirt in dark khaki as well as a new pair of elastic sided boots) and, whistling to Chulainn to follow, left the cottage by the back door and headed away onto the grass. Chulainn obligingly complied, his long legs moving lazily, red tongue flopping as he trotted in large cirlces around Boromir as they moved away. Tamar watched them from the kitchen window as she finished putting away the groceries, each box of oatmeal and tin of meat accounted for and stacked. The day was chill, the sky darkly overcast, the yard reflecting only grey and brown from peeling paint and gravel. She stepped outside the green door and squinted upward, sniffing the air for the ozone scent of approaching rain. She could still see them in the distance, man and dog both moving with a long limbed grace that caught and held her attention. She knew that Boromir often met Kored by the granite outcropping, but he never mentioned it more than in passing, and she never pressed him on it.

It had been three weeks since the night that had seen him moved permanently intot he spare room, three weeks since he had become a permanent fixture in the old blue velour armchair by the fire. Three weeks since he had become a permanent part of her own life. She could hardly imagine the place without him now, his moods and his endless need for activity to keep him busy. She had not chopped wood since he arrived. She was considering setting him at preparing the winter garden, harvesting potatoes, and turning the sod under the kitchen window to set the beds for spring. Then, he could try his hand at planting, she suspected for the first time.

As she watched him walk away, growing smaller against the green in the distance and the dark grey bluffs and cloudmountains on the horizon, he saw him turn and gaze back at the cottage. She shrank back inside, irrationally not wanting him to see her watching him. He stood, staring at the cottage, until Chulainn thrust a wet nose into his palm, and he turned back to the path and kept walking. He returned half and hour later, damp and smiling, Chulainn leaving a trail of muddy leaves through the back door.

"Home is the hunter," Tamar quoted. He grinned.

"I've brought a storm for you," he replied, glancing out at the darkening sky as he closed the door. "It approaches from the west. I think we shall be wet tonight."

Tamar nodded and handed him a blue mug of the tea he liked, spiced with cardamom. He sipped it cautiously, and placed it on the bench as he uncurled his scarf from around his neck and hung it untidily on a hook by the door. He kicked off his boots and Tamar raised her eyebrows at him.

"So how're you liking that quiet life of yours?" she asked, amused by his casual hominess. He sipped at his tea again.

"Well enough, Lady. Well enough I think." He smiled at her through the steam, his eyes gentle on her face, and she unaccountably felt like she was blushing.

That was it, then – the moment. The moment that could define the future.

She turned away from it, and busied herself stacking some plates in the sink.

"I thought we might try some gardening tomorrow. Prepare the beds for spring planting before the ground gets too cold."

He peered at her dubiously.

"Farming? Well, I have often thought of it as a noble enough pursuit…" He still looked doubtful, but nodded. "Very well. I must certainly earn my keep somehow."

She refused to look at him, still conscious of the heat on her cheeks.

"Good. Great. First thing tomorrow then. Gardening."

He frowned at her. "You are unhappy?"

She stiffened. "No, I'm fine. It's just… my story. It's not going anywhere. I'm stuck."

He replaced his mug on the bench and crossed the room to the fireplace where he began to light the fire she had laid earlier.

"Oh. Perhaps I could help?" he offered over his shoulder. "I am no bard, but I enjoy a good tale."

"No." her voice was tight. She kept her face turned away, feeling her colour rise again. Why couldn't she stop blushing? Part of her discomfort was anger, she knew, with herself for her sudden reaction to him. Daring a glance at him as he crouched in front of a tenuous flame, she swallowed her irritation to admit that he was a man who was hard to have at constant close quarters. The other day she had caught him singing again, as he rinsed a plate in the kitchen. His voice was rough, but true, the words and melody strange to her ears. He had looked up at her and grinned broadly. Then looked down and kept singing, although softer. The day before that he had been helping her shift some branches that came down in a wind. He had picked up a longish straightish branch, and began a series of excercises that looked to her like fencing moves or kendo. His body was long and lean, and fast, and familiar with the movement. Later that day, Kored had come to visit, and the two had found matched branches, pared them down, and sparred all afternoon before swapping some bloodcurdling stories over coffee in the evening. Tamar felt increasingly uneasy around him, and not only because of her attraction to him. He seemed almost too large to fit into this world. She would catch him staring away occasionally, a black expression on his face, and she knew that he had nightmares that he did not recall in the morning when she asked about them. There was something beneath his surface that made her pause, some unguessed at secret that was rising nearer to being known. Abruptly, she became aware that he was humming again, a sad sounding song with an exotic scale.

"What is that song?" she asked. "I've heard you humming it before. And Kored too."

He paused, then sighed.

"It is a song I'll not hear again unless it is my own voice that supplies it. It is a song of my people, one which is often sung by soldiers."

"Soldiers? But it sounds… haunted. Sad."

He looked at her, his face unreadable. Then he turned away and poked at the fire before sitting in his customary place. She stood for a moment, wondering what she had said to upset him. Then he began to sing softly.

Farewell my dearest girl

I must take up my arms

And follow the call

Although the moon is at your window

And your fragrant hair bids me stay.

Farewell my dearest girl

My sword is heavy in my hand

But I must take it

And if I do not return to you

Know that my heart is heavier.

He stopped abruptly. "There's more, but I do not wish to relate it."

Tamar shivered. "Did you ever sing it to a girl?" she asked.

He shook his head. "No, I never sang it to her. My heart was never heavy to leave her."

"Do you miss her?" she asked, resigning herself to the answer. He glanced back at her.

"No. I barely knew Lidda at all. She was betrothed to me when I was a lad, and she a babe. She was the daughter of my father's closest friend. I did not…. It did not happen that we ever married. The betrothal was broken by circumstance. I doubt she was troubled by it." His voice carried a trace of bitterness. "I am not a man who has loved often… or well."  She sensed a story, but also sensed that the moment to ask him more was not this one. Instead she went to him and sat in the chair opposite.Chulainn was sprawled clumsily in front of the fire, snoring quietly and looking as if every bone in his body had turned to rubber. Tamar regarded him for a moment before turning her attention to the man beside her. He was staring contemplatively into the fire, long fingers steepled in front of his face.

"Have you given any thought to what you will do? In the future I mean." She schooled her voice to nonchalance. "Maybe Kored could help you find work."

He did not reply. Rain hit the window with a slap as it began to fall, and a wind picked up, rattling the trees on the far side of the cottage. Boromir looked up abruptly, watchful, as if he had sensed something.

"Storm's coming," he said softly. Chulainn snorted and sat up, ears pricked and nose snuffing. He made a grunting noise, and pushed himself up to stand by Tamar, yellow eyes fixed on the green door. Tamar felt her gaze swing toward the door as well, the pale hair on her arms and the back of her neck prickling uncomfortably. Boromir looked at her, then at the door.

"Boromir?" Tamar enquired quietly. "Will you answer the door please?"

As she finished speaking, there was a loud knock at the door, as if it had been struck by something. Then another.

Then a moment of silence. Tamar's ears popped, and she could hear the rain and the wind as the storm gained momentum. Then a third knock.

"Boromir?" she asked again. He swallowed, and walked to the door. He placed his hand on the knob, and pulled it open, warily.

"Mithrandir," he breathed, and stepped back. Tamar stood as an unassuming, unkempt old man was almost blown into the room by the storm. Boromir closed the door behind him, then took two steps back to stand between Tamar and the man, his eyes fixed on the arrival. The tall man brushed at his grey robe and his grey beard, then raised a pair of grey eyes and looked sharply at both Tamar and Boromir over a large hooked nose. The energy which had crackled around the room prior to his entry subsided, leaving in its wake a vague feeling of unease and goosebumps down Tamar's back. She shuddered.

"Well, Lord Boromir. Have you no welcome for me then?" the man asked quietly, stilled. Chulainn growled once, unenthusiastically, then half wagged his tail and ended up looking a little confused. Tamar looked at the man, and back at Boromir, who was pale and wide eyed, and looking wild and distant.

"You died," he uttered shortly. "I saw…. Then… you are here? But…"

The man pursed his lips and took a few steps closer to the fire. Boromir slid out of his way, and Tamar stepped aside to allow his to pass. The hairs on her neck were still prickling, and she felt a weight on her chest as he regarded her with a suddenly humorous glint in his eye.

"Young lady, might I trouble you for a warm drink? As you can see, the weather is not friendly to old bones."

Tamar swallowed convulsively as she willed herself to calm. "Tea?"

He nodded. "That would have been what I asked for." He returned his attention to the fire, rubbing his hands together. Boromir was silent. Tamar nudged Chulainn out of the way and crossed the room to the kitchen, her shoes eerily loud on the board floor. Her breath was coming in short bursts, although it was calming now. The man had taken her seat by the fire, and was thrusting his worn shoes toward the heat. Tamar reached for another blue mug, and some crushed cardamom.

"Milk?" she asked, her voice cutting the atmosphere like razor blades. The man looked up, surprise across his features.

"In tea? Preposterous. Yet I thank you for your hospitality." He glanced at Boromir, who had not moved, then back at Tamar.

"So has he remembered yet?" he asked. Tamar frowned.

"Mhm?" she murmured, at a loss for any other words to add. Her hands were automatically going through the ritual of making tea. "Sorry?"

"Have you remembered it all?" the man repeated, addressing himself to Boromir. Boromir swallowed.

"I… I think so. I thought t'was but a nightmare. But your coming has prompted the nightmare to rise, and… I must see it for truth." His voice was hard and almost fearful, but the man seemed content, and nodded. Boromir returned to his seat, still moving warily, moving as if he were in pain. Tamar watched him closely, concerned at his discomfort. The rain slapped at the windows again, driven by a gust. The electric kettle whistled and clicked off. The man looked up.

"Fascinating," he murmured. Boromir cleared his throat.

"It… boils water, Mithrandir," he said, his voice a little rough. The man nodded, and watched as Tamar made a mug of tea.

"Why have you come?" Boromir asked suddenly, his eyes on the old man, his voice almost crisp and martial. The man did not look up at him.

"I would not have come if the need was not urgent. I have come to fetch you back, Boromir." His voice was gentle, almost sorrowful. "Your land has need of you once more."