Chapter Fourteen
Tuning
Turning a bend in the river, we lost sight of her, which forced us to face the journey before us. My eyes prickled with tears. Gimli sobbed in front of me, and even Legolas reached up to dash at his cheeks. The other boats were too far any to see if any of the rest of the fellowship were so affected.
"I have left the fairest thing in Middle Earth," Gimli snuffled. "After this I shall call nothing fair, except her gift."
I set my head to speak the common tongue and asked, "What was your gift, for I did not remark it?"
His brogue fairly oozed reproach. "Three hairs from her golden head." I had not thought that voice could turn dreamy. "I have walked unawares into the most peril we have yet faced on this quest. Fearing the dark, I have been overcome by the light, and it has wounded me sorely. The Dark Lord himself could not have done worse."
"And he would not have left you a gift," I felt the need to point out.
"That is true," Legolas answered, his light tenor surprising me. "Mourn for us all, Gimli, who exist in these elder days, for we soon lose any joy we encounter. But you, Gimli, are blessed, for such loss you suffered rather than leave your companions and their errand, and the unfading memory of Lorien shall be your reward."
"Memory is small comfort." Gimli and I spoke at the same time, but I let him continue. "Perhaps for the elves it is more. But let us speak of it no further. The boat rides low, and I have no desire to quench my grief in river water." He cast about for a paddle.
I passed the dwarf mine, and reached beside me for my whistle. We moved closer to the western bank as I trilled a few times, and then attempted the tune Galadriel had greeted us with on the swan-ship, for it had a mournful air, well suited to the piercing notes the pipe emitted.
As I finished, I could almost hear the hobbits shouting at me to play something happier. It occurred to me that I hadn't really heard any happy songs in Middle Earth. So, feeling slightly guilty, I played Christmas carols and Irish reels far into the night.
We docked for camp in the dark on the western bank. Though cold and damp, no one made a fire or unpacked much, merely carried the sleeping hobbits to shore and lay down beside them. Tired as I was, I wanted to stay up with my whistle, but sleep overtook me and I slipped into confused dreams, the instrument clutched to my chest.
The next morning, when I felt Aragorn's firm touch on my shoulder, I calculated how many hours of sleep I'd gotten and pulled the blanket up to my chin.
That seemed to have worked, because no one bothered me for a long minute, allowing me to get my R. E. M. cycle over with.
"Firiel," Aragorn breathed beside me, and I thought, 'Well, he's being nice, about time.' I decided to wait a moment and then stand. "Get up!" he bellowed in my ear.
I jumped six inches in the air while still horizontal, a most astounding gymnastic accomplishment, and bounced to my feet. Looking blearily around, I saw that everyone else had packed up and was watching me. Pippin was sniggering, and the rest of them wore smirks of various intensity. Except Boromir, who scowled as Aragorn stowed my blanket with deadpan dexterity and we set off.
The second day passed much like the first, only colder and more damp. We had left golden Lorien for gray river mist, and I did not think it a good trade. I was trying to tell what time it was and how long the current had been carrying us when Boromir's boat pulled alongside ours.
"Are we to have no music to cheer our hearts this day?" he enquired, almost plaintively. Pippin and Merry sat up and begged drowsily.
I could have hugged all of them, but Boromir especially. Raising the whistle to my lips, I suddenly remembered that I had only anachronisms to offer. "I fear I have exhausted my supply of tunes, lord," I demurred, as Aragorn, with Sam and Frodo, slipped up on my left, "so everyone must sing me one of their own choosing, and I will play it for them."
Silence, except for the lapping water. I thought I'd overstepped myself until a small, rustic voice broke the stillness: Sam. "Mr. Bilbo made a song at Rivendell that seems a fit one for a water journey: The Lay of Earendil." The hobbit began to chant softly, but as he eased into the song his surprisingly melodic baritone grew stronger. The lay was an epic one, and we sat spellbound as it wove the tale of the Elf-lord Earendil and his fate to forever sail the heavens.
I picked up the throbbing tune perhaps a third of the way through. A drum would have suited it better, but I did my best. "The Flammifer of Westernesse!" Sam ended triumphantly.
"Since we speak of journey-songs," Boromir began, after a moment, "there is a marching song we have in Gondor, though it may also be used to set the pace for oarsmen." I didn't even attempt to keep up with the tune, only listened to the voice, gruff and untrained as it was, more used to bellowing commands than to singing, but beautiful to my ears. Boromir finished entirely too quickly.
"I fear I must prevail upon you again, my lord," I said, eyes downcast to hide their merriment. He gave be a curious look, but sang through the tune again. I picked it up easily, a variation on three notes.
Merry and Pippin, not to be outdone, started in on a rollicking chantey that resembled a cross between a jig and a drinking song. Tenor and treble and lilting pipe swirled in the mist rising from the river in the noon sun.
When the two hobbits ended their song with a shout, the day seemed even more mournful. Into this sad silence, Aragorn murmured what I could discern as an Elvish love song, his head bent and his paddle motionless. Feeling that my playing would overshadow the simple, beautiful words, I waited until the Ranger had finished to trill the tune back at him.
Gimli cleared his throat in front of me. I jumped, not a safe thing to do in a boat. "I have small skill in the making of songs," he said, "but the beauty and wisdom of the Lady of Lorien has moved me to do so." Again the throat clearing. I had not thought a Dwarvish bass capable of a tribute to Elvish beauty, but Gimli managed it, and I provided counterpoint.
Legolas' heartbreaking tenor spilled after we finished. I recognized the Lament for Gandalf, and I was ready. We chased each other up to soaring heights of melody, and then plummeted back down. He turned around to face me; it was almost a duet.
After this display, I slumped back, exhausted. "We come at last to the Ringbearer," I finally got out. "Have you a song for us, Frodo?" I asked, hoping he would decline. No such luck. The hobbit sat up, sighed, and offered quite a fitting verse about roads that went ever ever on. He had quite a lack of vocal talent, but I caught the tune. It was short and simple, which I appreciated.
I laid my pipe down. Gray day had become gray night without my noticing. Aragorn called a halt, and we pulled the boats onto the shore and cast ourselves down into sleep.
Tuning
Turning a bend in the river, we lost sight of her, which forced us to face the journey before us. My eyes prickled with tears. Gimli sobbed in front of me, and even Legolas reached up to dash at his cheeks. The other boats were too far any to see if any of the rest of the fellowship were so affected.
"I have left the fairest thing in Middle Earth," Gimli snuffled. "After this I shall call nothing fair, except her gift."
I set my head to speak the common tongue and asked, "What was your gift, for I did not remark it?"
His brogue fairly oozed reproach. "Three hairs from her golden head." I had not thought that voice could turn dreamy. "I have walked unawares into the most peril we have yet faced on this quest. Fearing the dark, I have been overcome by the light, and it has wounded me sorely. The Dark Lord himself could not have done worse."
"And he would not have left you a gift," I felt the need to point out.
"That is true," Legolas answered, his light tenor surprising me. "Mourn for us all, Gimli, who exist in these elder days, for we soon lose any joy we encounter. But you, Gimli, are blessed, for such loss you suffered rather than leave your companions and their errand, and the unfading memory of Lorien shall be your reward."
"Memory is small comfort." Gimli and I spoke at the same time, but I let him continue. "Perhaps for the elves it is more. But let us speak of it no further. The boat rides low, and I have no desire to quench my grief in river water." He cast about for a paddle.
I passed the dwarf mine, and reached beside me for my whistle. We moved closer to the western bank as I trilled a few times, and then attempted the tune Galadriel had greeted us with on the swan-ship, for it had a mournful air, well suited to the piercing notes the pipe emitted.
As I finished, I could almost hear the hobbits shouting at me to play something happier. It occurred to me that I hadn't really heard any happy songs in Middle Earth. So, feeling slightly guilty, I played Christmas carols and Irish reels far into the night.
We docked for camp in the dark on the western bank. Though cold and damp, no one made a fire or unpacked much, merely carried the sleeping hobbits to shore and lay down beside them. Tired as I was, I wanted to stay up with my whistle, but sleep overtook me and I slipped into confused dreams, the instrument clutched to my chest.
The next morning, when I felt Aragorn's firm touch on my shoulder, I calculated how many hours of sleep I'd gotten and pulled the blanket up to my chin.
That seemed to have worked, because no one bothered me for a long minute, allowing me to get my R. E. M. cycle over with.
"Firiel," Aragorn breathed beside me, and I thought, 'Well, he's being nice, about time.' I decided to wait a moment and then stand. "Get up!" he bellowed in my ear.
I jumped six inches in the air while still horizontal, a most astounding gymnastic accomplishment, and bounced to my feet. Looking blearily around, I saw that everyone else had packed up and was watching me. Pippin was sniggering, and the rest of them wore smirks of various intensity. Except Boromir, who scowled as Aragorn stowed my blanket with deadpan dexterity and we set off.
The second day passed much like the first, only colder and more damp. We had left golden Lorien for gray river mist, and I did not think it a good trade. I was trying to tell what time it was and how long the current had been carrying us when Boromir's boat pulled alongside ours.
"Are we to have no music to cheer our hearts this day?" he enquired, almost plaintively. Pippin and Merry sat up and begged drowsily.
I could have hugged all of them, but Boromir especially. Raising the whistle to my lips, I suddenly remembered that I had only anachronisms to offer. "I fear I have exhausted my supply of tunes, lord," I demurred, as Aragorn, with Sam and Frodo, slipped up on my left, "so everyone must sing me one of their own choosing, and I will play it for them."
Silence, except for the lapping water. I thought I'd overstepped myself until a small, rustic voice broke the stillness: Sam. "Mr. Bilbo made a song at Rivendell that seems a fit one for a water journey: The Lay of Earendil." The hobbit began to chant softly, but as he eased into the song his surprisingly melodic baritone grew stronger. The lay was an epic one, and we sat spellbound as it wove the tale of the Elf-lord Earendil and his fate to forever sail the heavens.
I picked up the throbbing tune perhaps a third of the way through. A drum would have suited it better, but I did my best. "The Flammifer of Westernesse!" Sam ended triumphantly.
"Since we speak of journey-songs," Boromir began, after a moment, "there is a marching song we have in Gondor, though it may also be used to set the pace for oarsmen." I didn't even attempt to keep up with the tune, only listened to the voice, gruff and untrained as it was, more used to bellowing commands than to singing, but beautiful to my ears. Boromir finished entirely too quickly.
"I fear I must prevail upon you again, my lord," I said, eyes downcast to hide their merriment. He gave be a curious look, but sang through the tune again. I picked it up easily, a variation on three notes.
Merry and Pippin, not to be outdone, started in on a rollicking chantey that resembled a cross between a jig and a drinking song. Tenor and treble and lilting pipe swirled in the mist rising from the river in the noon sun.
When the two hobbits ended their song with a shout, the day seemed even more mournful. Into this sad silence, Aragorn murmured what I could discern as an Elvish love song, his head bent and his paddle motionless. Feeling that my playing would overshadow the simple, beautiful words, I waited until the Ranger had finished to trill the tune back at him.
Gimli cleared his throat in front of me. I jumped, not a safe thing to do in a boat. "I have small skill in the making of songs," he said, "but the beauty and wisdom of the Lady of Lorien has moved me to do so." Again the throat clearing. I had not thought a Dwarvish bass capable of a tribute to Elvish beauty, but Gimli managed it, and I provided counterpoint.
Legolas' heartbreaking tenor spilled after we finished. I recognized the Lament for Gandalf, and I was ready. We chased each other up to soaring heights of melody, and then plummeted back down. He turned around to face me; it was almost a duet.
After this display, I slumped back, exhausted. "We come at last to the Ringbearer," I finally got out. "Have you a song for us, Frodo?" I asked, hoping he would decline. No such luck. The hobbit sat up, sighed, and offered quite a fitting verse about roads that went ever ever on. He had quite a lack of vocal talent, but I caught the tune. It was short and simple, which I appreciated.
I laid my pipe down. Gray day had become gray night without my noticing. Aragorn called a halt, and we pulled the boats onto the shore and cast ourselves down into sleep.