Pretty suite from the hills.
.oOo.
At the sign of the Drunken Goose…
The old ranger rarely passes by the Drunken Goose. When he comes to rest, he tells the villagers the adventures of his youth. In fact, it is not clear how old the man can be: his bare forehead denies a robust carcass. But mostly, his stories are a little strange. It seems that the ranger has lived them, although they seem to tell of distant centuries.
.oOo.
In a hidden mansion of the Dùnedain, between the lake and the hills...
Behind the fogged diamonds, the snowy hills were lost in the grayness of a winter morning. The boy's mind was wandering alongside the Dùnedain hunters.
- Arahad, would you please repeat the fourth movement of the suite, in A major?
The boy startled, back in the old tower of the worm-eaten mansion.
His music teacher - a distant aunt, Arahad called her the old goat - had a rattling voice, and absolutely horrifying calls to order. The old goat's long virtuoso fingers stirred for a moment on the strings of her harp, chanting a chord in G major, of ample majesty.
Arahad's crazy head, still ruffled by his imaginary ride in the Twilight Hills, spat out with vexation:
- "Why should we learn all this? There's no point, for defeating orcs!"
After a pained nod, the old lady retorted in her ragged voice:
- "Orcs make no music. Are you not better than an orc? You only think of fighting! The exploits of your father, our lord Araglas, have no other object than to preserve the greatness of the Dùnedain, our arts, and our literature, in the hope that one day they may be reborn. Much more than the glory of our lineage, it is your sister's grace and your brother's lore he is protecting, and you will soon have to protect, and better still, to transmit to the next generation! Our people have gone into the darkness to survive the hatred of the Witch-King of Angmar; But each of our shadows must be equally valiant with a sword or a feather. "
Arahad looked for help around him.
His elder sister, who usually embraced her siblings with a serene and protective glance, looked at him severely. Her bearing regal, as befits in the line of Isildur, and her bust straight in an austere wimple, the young girl held her bow with a supple and graceful wrist. Ready to attack the suite of Arvedui on her viola da gamba, Eleanor1 waited for the goodwill of the cadet, her eyebrow and little finger in the air.
The younger brother, perched on a stool between his elder sister and the professor, tried to hide behind his pipe, a smile of embarrassed complicity. As a silence lingered on, little Dirhad, without saying a word, sketched some notes on his instrument with his graceful fingers.
Arahad thanked him with eyelashes. Hesitantly, he reproduced the movement on his recorder. O Miracle! Dirhad had transposed from memory, the sequence his elder brother missed.
The theme rose almost in spite of himself, a modest lament chanting the harshness of the hills, soon relayed by a ritornello of the pipe, hopping like a stream running down the slopes to Lake Evendim. The fullness of summer bathed the small paneled room, as the majestic viola took the counterpoint of the recorder and embraced whole Eriador, loaded with ears and grapes formerly harvested by the Dùnedain. The professor's harp resumed the theme, taking the children to the ice of Forochel, where the treasures of the Dùnedain kingdom in the north lay, according to legend, since the last King of Fornost had hidden them there.2
The suite3 ended. The children emerged from an awakened dream, a little astonished at having overcome it, as if the force of the theme had carried them to its long-anticipated end. A knowing smile sketched on Eleanor's gentle and almost maternal face, lit up Dirhad's studious look, stretched a satisfied grin on Arahad's fierce lips, before sowing a tear on the professor's dry, wrinkled cheek.
.oOo.
Several years later…
The exhausted Dunedain were laid all over the old marbles. The patrol, surprised by the enemy, dressed his wounds and recovered his strength. Arahad, guided by the instinct of Isildur, had known how to rally his men and lead them into a hidden refuge. The leader of the rangers was now making the tour of the bivouacs, comforting his fighters. At the vigil, his younger brother told them the tale of the Kings.
"... and you will call him Arvedui, for he will be the last in Arthedain. But a choice will be offered to the Dùnedain, and if they take the least promising in appearance, then your son will change his name and he will become sovereign of a vast kingdom. Otherwise, great evils will happen and many men's lives will pass before the Dùnedain can rise again and recover their old unity."4 Thus spoke Malbeth5 in the hour of peril for the kingdom of the north. And since that time, the Dùnedain cherished the memory of their greatness, a tenacious hope and hidden ferment of a distant renewal.
Then rose a little duo of flutes, light as a breeze in the branches of hazel. In the cheerful melodies of the two brothers, echoed the heroism of the kings and the patience of the wise. And soon hummed the whole company, the comforting airs of the suite of the hills.
.oOo.
Several years later…
The Dùnedain, clad in coats of arms, had gathered around their captain. The rich tunics and the gaudy robes flaunted in the breeze which bathed the consecrated place.
Like a sapphire entwined between the hills, Lake Evendim shimmered below. No queen of Fornost had ever worn, a jewel more magnificent for her marriage.
Arahad and his bride exchanged their vows before their friends and relatives, under Manwë's gaze. The suite of the hills rose, a joyful blessing for the married couple and a solemn promise of renewed hope.
.oOo.
Several years later…
The west wind blew on the Barrow-Downs. In the shadow of a raised stone, a majestic woman drew desperate chords of the viola of her childhood.
The ladies of the Dùnedain whispered with her, along with the low humming of the men, young and old gathered around them, like a ramparts of lofty statures.
Beneath the vault of heaven flew sad clouds. One last time the suite of the hills rang in honor of the man who had fallen to defend it.
The lord of the rangers played his score alongside his sister, as his companions carried to the grave the remains of their brother Dirhad, a wise among the brave.
As the sun suddenly pierced the clouds, the moorland blossom lit up with warm purples. Arahad thought with gratitude, that no king of Annuminas had ever had a more sumptuous funeral, under his golden catafalque.
.oOo.
In the hidden mansion of the Dùnedain, several years later…
A kid glared at the rolling hills through the diamonds. Not far away, a new sun illuminated a spring valley with gold. The child was running in a dream among the broom, in the land of sprites. His hands had fallen down the strings of an old harp.6
A beautiful lady finished a solemn minuet with a graceful bow. In a firm and gentle tone, she recalled her pupil from his reverie, then handed the grinning boy back to work. From time to time she would glance at a pram, where a toddler had fallen asleep by the purring of her viola. A nostalgic smile passed over the lady's regal face, when a tall man entered the room.
The leather of his equipment seemed lustered, and his cloak worn out by a long use under any weather. But a star, a silver fibula, shone on his tunic, designating him as the chief of the Dùnedain of Arnor. The ranger was watching the scene with a dreamy, amused look as an air of sweet eternity sang to his mind.
The kid, blowing with a sulky look, took advantage of the interlude to interrupt his scales:
- "Were you obliged to learn all this too?"
The warrior read a spark of rebellious hope in the kid's pupil, in search of a paternal dispensation. Arahad hesitated. His own scales were a bit rusty...
The lady raised a teasing eyebrow - she straightened up and dressed her bow, as if to inspire her brother. The ranger smiled at her, took a long object out of his quiver, unrolled the satin stuff.
Then Eleanor and Arahad intoned the opening. As if by magic, the vault opened and scents of pine trees descended from the Blue Mountains. The suite of the hills, like in the past, led the audience through the paths of remembrance and hope.
The child under the spell abandoned himself to the fullness of the chords celebrating the austere beauty of the Ettenmoors. Savoring the subtle harmony that enveloped the Baranduin's millennial course, he remained speechless for a moment.
Then it came to his mind that he, too, would probably have to prove himself to the ungrateful kingdom of scales and arpeggios.
- "Then you must have learned all the whole suite?"
- "No, my son, I do not know the end of it. But we shall teach you what we have learned, to your little cousin, to you and all who will come. Then it will be up to you to take over the suite, and perhaps will you be among these who will finish it?
.oOo.
At the sign of the Drunken Goose…
Will you believe it? The old ranger manages with his pipe! When he plays a ritornello, the youths leap on the old flagstones, invite their gallants and soon the whole room knock their hands in cadence, as if one were celebrating the return of the king in beautiful spring!
.oOo.
NOTES
Inspiration : La petite fugue,Maxime Le Forestier. La suite des montagnes, Alan Stivell
1 In sindarin, the etymology of this modern name gives « Sun of the elvish world » (El – Eä – Anor). Nice chance?
2 These are two of the Palantiri of the North.
3 A suite, in Western classical music and jazz, is an ordered set of instrumental or orchestral or concert band pieces.
4 The Lord of the Rings. Appendix A
5 Master Palantir-Seer, who predicted the fall of the Dunedain of Arnor. His name means « Golden Speech » in Sindarin.
6 In passing, allow me to praise ancient music and the consort. Just as a counterbalance to king instruments - piano and violin - the classical tenors of which neglect too often, sometimes to the point of contempt, the medieval and baroque masterpieces that gave birth to them.