The little princess of the lectern.
.oOo.
This story is a continuation and the end of the Little Prince of the Bakehouse.
.oOo.
The rain is pounding the dungeon slates. Hailstones hit the fogged window. Squalls utter ghostly moans in the chimney. The creaking castle buttresses on its ancient oak beams, opposing the autumn onslaught, with the mass of its ancient stones, and the inertia of the welter life has cluttered its walls with - the small habits of the inhabitants, their lost loves, their inveterate vices, not to mention several heavy secrets.
Tonight we read. This evening the inn is visited by a prominent character, a grizzled old man, affable but lively, feared bearer of prophecies and tireless fighter of defeatism. All faces turn to the lectern, brought down from the attic. The old house purks up its somewhat hard-of-hearing ear, and scolds its little rowdy commensals.
When Eliahel is reading a tale of old, the common room is illuminated by elven splendors, the vaults populate with seabirds in a sky before the fall of kings, the air carries fragrances of hope from another age.
The girl's clear voice rises as the minstrels' harps once in Fornost. Her grace flies on rhymes, sowing enchantment in souls. The dreams of the audience, quenched by chores, snorting and taking force, don the hero's armor and cherish his banner of justice.
The light verses run under the sun, awakening spring in hearts. The bud of hope and the flower of renewal hatch, grow and exhale bittersweet sap, that their feeder roots derive from legends.
Fresh Eliahel launches the verses of the tale, with a new and bold tone. Yet the archaic language charms the ear with its weathered rhythms. The generations gathered for the vigil, delighted, find in the chronicles of the kings, the echo of their thirst for life, the refrain of their labours and the ferment of their courage.
Villagers and travelers share, during this evening, a little more than a distraction. Throughout the venerable pages, the fatherly figure of the kings of yore extends its protective wing and awakens the pride of the ancient people of Arnor.
.oOo.
Eliahel is reading slowly, rejuvenating a turn or mimicking a posture occasionally, with an innate sense of rhythm that captivates the small community. The girl knows all the rough edges of her beloved pages, softening them with grace. Thus, without unbridling her text, the reader has time to observe her audience.
Her immediate family struts dressed up in the front row, while Gigolet her master, proud as a king's cadet, sends paternal looks to his protégée.
In the warm light of candles, toddlers form a still circle, their chubby faces raising to the girl at the lectern. From time to time they pilfer some forest fruits their elders are sifting, curious about wonders but worried about monsters, which shadows, revived by the tale, are lurking outside.
A little further, the women, their lap loaded with embroidery or stitching, sigh at the disgruntled loves of the court ladies. His thumb in his mouth and his gaze into space, a marmoset, sated with mother milk, is dozing in the plump arms that gently rock him to the rhythm of the rhymes.
The men, at last, in the glowing darkness of the back rows, winnow wicker and sculpt boxwood, nodding to the exploits of errant knights. The old man, sat in a large chair, is quietly teasing his pipe in perfumed spirals, but the alert embers of his pupils observe the audience's moods with interest. Sir Finran scurrily circulates in the ranks, renewing jugs and mugs, and beer invades the tables, just like trolls are spreading from north in the tale.
The room shudders. The shadowy noose tightens on the castle. A kid starts crying. But the royal guard stands firm!
A tall youth, the village idiot, rises terrified from the bench, waving his table-fork against the invaders. The gray old man reassures him with a kind look and he resumes his place among the herdsmen, tasting the sweet knowing heat of the vigil. The obtuse boy escapes for a time his heavy clay thoughts; his spirits, loosed by the tale, commune with his peers in dreams.
On a bench leaning against the wall, two young people exchange tender and playful glances, pretending to listen to the tale. From under her hood taffeta, a surly peasant, chaperone of the girl, throw from time to time inquisitors and discouraging eye shots, without much success.
A young farm boy, hidden behind the pillar, participates in the battle with all his soul, casting spells like this gray magician who sometimes roams in the tale. The little man has probably escaped his mother and slipped into the high room for the vigil.
But the storm is gathering and the hordes of the Witch-king break on Cardolan's rich lands. The audience becomes one, its nerves tense, the boy rages in unison with Eliahel and the bruised kingdom survives the ordeal.
A round of beer, hot drinks and just baked biscuits, comes right to cheer the room. Eliahel, pampered and patted, is sipping her egg-nog among the children.
But when she looks around her little accomplice, he seems to have vanished!
.oOo.
Eliahel must find out for sure. Several times she thought she saw the blond boy lazing in the aisles of the attic above the bakery of the castle. She even wonders if he would not be a bit of a hidden child of the baker and master Finran. Concealing her approach behind sacks of flour, the huntress observes her prey, who is carelessly watering at a source of knowledge, sitting on a pile of dilapidated tomes, stolen from the scribe.
So here is the little villain who steals Master Gigolet's to-be-restored books! Leaning on a heavy leather volume, blondboy seems absorbed in contemplation, his pale, melancholic face lit by a faint smile.
Eliahel is slowly approaching the little player. She focuses on the open book, above the boy's frail shoulder.
The king stands in the center of the illuminated page, his gold brocades ignite the hearing with a glorious majesty. The noble dignitaries, supporters or parasites of his power, encircle the sovereign. His close family, gathered near the throne, seems to look far away to the uncertain limbo of a threatening future.
The King asks the posterity with his mysterious gaze, where the blond boy is getting lost. The pale child, immersed in the image of the past, lets Eliahel lookk at his side. In a thrill from beyond the world, the girl realizes the resemblance of the child, with the hieratic gilt icon that contemplates him across the centuries.
- "Please, tell me a story!"
In a fragile moment, even silence may not be broken. Eliahel feels the boy's need for connivance - she whispers:
- "Which story do you want?"
The boy makes a faint distracted grimace:
- "When a good story is told, the book's images are joyful...
- I like pictures too, but I prefer tales. In a tale, those who listen carefully all find beautiful images.
- When I listen carefully, I hear it's my dad who tells me the story.
- Who's your daddy?"
Again a soft impatient reproach is fleeting for a moment in the eyes of the little boy.
- "The most beautiful story is my Dad's.
- I do not know the story your Dad tells you. The story in this book is all about the King.
- But my Dad, that's him!"
Eliahel startles, not daring to turn to her little companion, who is pointing at the king in majesty. Dizzy-making, the girl can almost feel the cold breath of the boy, who repeats imperturbable:
- "Please, tell me this story!"
He is sitting quietly, his legs in the air. His pale face is not begging. His eyes are not crying. But his clear and serene look is weighing like a reproach, applying this unconscious right of children to quietly require and grab the essentials.
So Eliahel reads the ancient lines. It is about alliances, war and honor. It reports the hours of the kingdom, great or mediocre - harvests and epidemics, fairs and taxes, the exploits of knights and the disputes of the world leaders.
- "You telling poorly! The picture is not beautiful at all now! Please, tell me a story where my Dad is happy!"
The thin voice, which rises serious and concerned, elicits a distant need, unfulfilled for ages.
- "But I've read exactly what is written!"
His puppet mage over his nose and his thumb in his mouth, the child takes refuge in a protective silence. A tear rolls along his sheer cheek, and gets lost in the shadows of the attic. His look, remote and sad, seems not to see the girl any more.
But a gust flows the candle out in a chill, plunging the attic in icy darkness. Covered with cold sweat and distraught, Eliahel felt for the ladder.
- "Yet I had told you not to approach the visitors, blows a mother's voice, like in a dream. Their stories are sad and wicked. Come, Ostomir, do not cry anymore! I'll tell you the story of Mom and Dad, and if you kindly have your nap, I will give you buns..."
.oOo.
In the courtyard of the castle, the girl gesticulates in front of the old man who takes the sun, sitting on the edge of the well. The grizzled man raises a bushy and inquisitor eyebrow under, the brim of his large faded hat:
- "A little blond boy? "
Eliahel explains, voluble:
- "His name is Ostomir.
- I do not see…
- I think he is the son of the baker!
- Really? But Finran and the baker did not... No, you must be mistaken, my child!
- Well, not our baker! The bker from the time of yonder!"
The wizard removes his pipe from his mouth, squints slyly and stares with interest at Eliahel, who adds:
- "He is very small, very cute, very pale, and he still sucks his thumb!
- ...
- And he never answers any questions!
- ...
- And he's always got a rag doll, designed as an old man with long stick and beard...
- Oh yes? A puppet that looks like me? "
The wizard, intrigued, takes a puff while turning his eyes towards the section of collapsed wall.
The breach overlooks a vast field, on which the provost of Thalion, once had the lists and galleries risen for spring jousting.
.oOo.
Colorful memories arise from pipeweed smokes.
A piper from the South Downs hosts a farandole of girls on the pavement in front of the Castel. With rosy cheeks and a short breath, they laugh and concede their flower headdresses to young men. Plumed pages and squires challenge the ribboned bourgeois.
The King rides along the row of tents, decorated with the arms of bannerets of Cardolan and errant knights of lost Rhudaur, to the lists where his court is awaiting.
The jubilant crowd gives passage to King Ostoher, flanked by his son in arms. The brass tubes burst into glorious fanfare, and all bow to the monarch who sits at the center of the gallery.
Then the jousters advance on their prancing steeds, anticipating the fight. Suddenly a woman rushes to the column, pulling her child under the hooves of a battle horse. The kid had a narrow escape, but the crowd laughs at the confusion that broke up the parade.
The austere black dress of a long neat woman splits the crush of onlookers. Her wrinkled face poses a stern look on those guilty of disorder and launches her judgment:
- "The etiquette must be respected! Your position at the Castel does not allow you any freedom! Therefore both of you regain the bakery and go about your chores! "
The eldest son of the King intervenes graciously:
- "Come on, Lady Severine, today is a feast for all of us!"
The duenna tilts reluctantly, while the young man takes the boy on his shoulders:
- "And you, Ostomir, you'll see better from up there!"
The boy, a laughing blond, seems to share some affection with the prince, like an idolized big brother. The mother sends a grateful smile, and it is with confidence that she leaves her son, proudly perched on the gleaming armor, waving his wizard puppet with enthusiasm.
Gandalf, pensive, expels a puff of smoke. As the memory fades away, the old man uses his staff and turns to Eliahel, with a strange penetrating look:
- "How could I possibly remember such a distant time? As for you, you should run the hills in the sun. Let the stories for winter evenings! And don't you lose yourself in ghostly mirages. It is not good for mortals, to stretch time indefinitely and remain forever in their memories..."
.oOo.
The following evening, a red moon is rising above the hills when Eliahel walks out to draw water. She sees the old man sat amid the breach, in the rubble of the collapsed wall. A book on his knees, he is softly reading, by the light of the stars. A pale and indistinct shadow stands beside him, occasionally resting his head on the wizard's shoulder.
Eliahel approaches slyly. Gandalf concludes his tale:
- "So Ostoher, last of the kings of Cardolan, joined his ancestors with his fallen sons. You see, he managed to repel the enemies of the kingdom and can now rest in the domain of Mandos.
- Why does my Daddy not come back from Mandos place?
- My boy, he found a beautiful kingdom prepared for him and your brothers.
- But I expect them!
- They too are waiting for you...
- You think I'm allowed to go too, in the beautiful kingdom?
- Of course! Your place has been reserved for you when you played the fire wizard... It's a great kingdom for small children.
- But I don't want to leave Mom here with the visitors.
- You are right. You should perhaps ask Mom to come with you there?"
The boy does not need to convince his mom - she always knows everything, her Mom, she's somehow a witch. The sweet hill-girl takes her son by the hand and Gandalf leads them by forgotten corridors of the old castle. In the crypt of the dungeon, the wizard asks the boy to waver with his puppet. Immediately a large dark door opens, revealing a room from which flows a bright light, warm and soft. Ostomir embraces Gandalf who declares:
- "Now you're going to follow your friend the wizard towards the light. And when you get there, tell the King, the tales the visitors taught you!"
Mother and son, radiant and transfigured, fade in the halo. When the door closes, an icy breeze blows under the arch, wrapping around the granite pillars. The wizard grabs young Eliahel, who has silently advanced to the door:
- "No, my child, your time has not come! Do not be sad for them, they have finally found the true end of their story.
- But I want to know where he is going!
- You still have much time to live that story! And many people here need you! You will have to live your own adventures, invent your own stories and transmit the gift, before searching the rooms beyond.
- I'll miss him ! "
Gandalf, squatting, addresses a knowing smile to Eliahel:
- "Me too. But he is so much happier now, that we will always remember him, with his laughing dimples and his pretty face that never answers questions!
- ...
- ...and in the meantime, look what he gave me for you!"
The wizard reaches to the girl, with half a dozen dilapidated tomes. There are more volumes than master Gigolet would dare hope to find.
.oOo.
NOTES