Chapter Nineteen: Up the Mountain
Estel could hardly take in all that his eyes were capturing. Like an eagle, indeed, he espied from afar and swiftly pounced upon objects of his fascination, though there the likeness ended: he crushed nothing, destroyed nothing, and rather devoured them with sharp eye and eager nose. Only then would he venture a fingertip, as Gilraen had carefully schooled him, and perceive through the lightest touch the tiny vibration of emanated by the creature, be it rock, leaf or free-moving.
The elves were astounded. They followed closely when he scampered ahead, and stood at ease while he probed into his little mysteries. They had, at times, seen the mortal Dúnedain, but never one so small. Or so lively. And certainly, so full of glee and chatter. He inquired after all things new, every step of the way, and greeted familiar ones as old and intimate friends.
"This child will never be lonely," whispered Ranon. "He is near kindred with all the tiny lives around him. I could hardly believe such a one to be."
The child stopped suddenly and moved not a hair, crouched down and slightly forward with his feet gripping the ground. His sight riveted on a small flying insect. "Another bee, Ranon," he whispered from the corner of his mouth.
"Let her settle," she murmured back. Together they watched the bee float from one flower to the next, finally choosing a purple blossom with petals swirling into a deep funnel. "Is she akin to the tiny angel in Vaneta's garden, young Estel?"
"Not very, very near kin, longer in this part," he said, running his hands along his own sides to demonstrate the insect's thorax. "And more brown, less black."
"Very good, young master," said Ranon, pleased. "And look. She is fuzzy brown here, and her big fat tail is shiny black."
"She makes honey, Ranon?" asked Estel greedily.
"Not for us, my dear," she answered. "These ladies do not live in great hives, like our bees of honey, where all of them labor together in making the golden sweet. This one and all her kind live in small nests with their own little children, like a family, and eat the tiny yellow specks. They make no honey, and think nothing of stabbing your fingertip with the sharp dagger on the end of her tail."
"Ah!" Estel drew back his hand and scrutinized the dangerous bee. "We must be careful. She is not our friend." He frowned, and his fingers twitched. "Should we crush her with this rock?" He lifted a flat stone and examined it doubtfully.
""If you break her life under the stone, all her babies will be hungry and lonely. Do you want this for them?" Ranon looked deep into the child's eyes.
"No-o-o-o…" he said, his eyes moist.
"Also," continued Ranon in a lighter tone, "there is much of importance in her work, even if she makes no honey for us." He looked up at her, inquisitively. "When she flies into a flower and takes the tiny yellow specks, you see she leaves a trail…"
Estel nodded. "Like the millipon," he said.
"Yes. And when they come out, and fly to another flower and go deep inside, like this," she pointed with a slender blade of grass to the parts of the purple flower, "they drop some of the tiny yellow specks from the other flower. From many other flowers."
"And then what happens?" whispered Estel, sensing the enormity of her words.
"Fruits, and seeds, and more flowers will be born," she whispered back. "Arda will dress herself in beauty, each spring, and the circle will continue always." She looked up at the clouds gathering in the north. "This is the plan devised by Our Lady Kementari," she said. "It is a good plan. It provides for us all, all her little children."
"Little bees have big work," the child said happily.
"Little bees, and bigger bees. Some the size of your hand, some tinier even than the millipon. Some make honey, some do not, like this sestrix. Some are angry bees and sting, some do not sting but bite, like an ant, and some are gentle and harmless." Ranon seemed to see them all around her. "They all do the great work of Our Lady."
"Not only the bees precious to your heart, Ranon," interjected Niboi. "This great work is also done by butterflies, tiny birds and even tinier bats."
"How, butterflies into a little flower?" wondered Estel. "And what is bat, Niboi?"
"Butterflies, birds and bats do not go inside the flower, like bees do. They have long, long tongues," he stopped and pushed out his tongue as far as it would go, "and they reach into the flower with them. They drink the sweet water of the flower, and pull along bits of tiny yellow specks that may rub off in the next flower they visit. Have you seen the tiny birds kissing the flowers, Estel?"
"Tiny birds," he said, searching his memory, "no, no tiny birds. And no bats."
"You will see them when the new green comes," promised Niboi. "I will take you to hunt for them in the warm places of the valley. Tiny birds in the day, tiny bats in the evening."
"Birds in the day, bats in the night?" the child puzzled. "What are bats?"
"They fly like birds, little one, but they are not birds. They have fur, not feathers, and snouts instead of beaks. And you know that birds lay eggs, and their babies are born from the egg after many days." Niboi's nimble fingers produced illusions as he spoke, eggs from round stones, feathers from blades of fuzzy grass.
"Yes!" cried Estel excitedly. "They sit in the nest, many days, and make the eggs warm. This Momo showed me--" he caught himself, remembering Gilraen's words before. "Momo showed me," he finished lamely, a bit sad.
Niboi pulled him up onto his shoulders, swinging the child away from sudden sorrow, and continued, "Bats' babies are born like dogs' babies, and cows', and horses'…"
"And Eru's children's," Ranon said mischievously.
"You have seen dogs' babies, Estel?" Niboi turned the child's inquisitive ear from the provocative statement. How would they ever work their way out of that story? "Or tiny mice, or forest creatures?"
Before the child could dig up an answer, Niboi leaped up the mountain path to a small, sheltered plateau where Darmel was busily gathering the last of the veyat. "There is enough here for many days' bread, young Estel," he said. "Will you help me pick the grain?"
"Oh, yes," said Estel bravely, climbing down from Niboi's shoulders. "Show me, please." He inspected closely the golden sheaves already piled.
Darmel pulled up one stalk and pointed out its parts to the child. "…and this is the grain that you saw in the tall jar in Vaneta's kitchen." He pulled one off the stem and handed it to Estel. "Though it isn't quite ready to go in the jar, yet. We must take each one from this fat finger and spread them out like this, on the clean floor so that no one grain lies atop another… then we offer it to our sister Arien, for three days, until it is dry enough to go into the tall jar."
"Now I know the story of veyat, all of it," said the boy with great satisfaction. "Or… is there more?" he turned back to Niboi.
"Only this, little one," said the elf. "That some of the grains we do not use to make bread. Some we pick out, the best and shiniest, and save them for…"
"For the spring-time!" shouted Estel in delight. "Yes, we put each one in a little hole in the soil, which we have made ready… Yes! I have done this with Momo, and with my granna Ivorwen… before…" he trailed off again. "I must not say," he muttered.
"Estel, little friend," Ranon knelt at his side and took his hand, "fear not for your words sprouted in joy. Beyond us, they will not go. And we will not ask." She leaped up suddenly, twirling merrily. "We are your friends, Estel, and friends seek always to share happy moments. This, my dear," she slowed her whirling and whispered close, "is the wisdom of Arda: this moment, now. We are, now. We love, now. Happy, we sing and dance as we work for our good food. Happy, now."
"Happy, yes," smiled the little boy radiantly, "I am happy. I am Estel."
"And Darmel has picked almost all the veyat himself," said Niboi. "Let us start from this side, and meet him in the sea of golden grain."
The elves and the boy worked their way into the clusters of brittle blond grass, taking between their fingers carefully the stalks top-heavy with grain. Each piled a sheaf, two large and one small.
"Look at this," said Estel suddenly, pointing to a smallish plant entwined among the stalks of veyat. "What is this?"
"Ah," said Darmel, "this is lottla, young Estel. Have you not eaten lottla in a good soup, or mixed with veyat and egg?"
"I know not," said the child unsurely, "but I will have some, please."
"This boy can eat a house," muttered Niboi. "He will have to become a hunter as well as a harvester."
"Let me tell you, little one, that veyat and lottla are like Niboi and me, almost like brothers, always friends. We plant veyat in the early spring, and the young stalks begin to shoot up; then we plant a seed of lottla beside each one, and then they, too, start sprouting up. And they cling to the veyat stalk with their tiny hands, see?" the elf pointed to a minuscule pronged tendril, "and wind around. Then they protect one another and make strength for each other, and they grow together."
"But there is only one here," said the child in wonder.
"We had gathered our lottla in days past. This one was overlooked." Darmel stood up and packed the sheaves into a large sack. "There. We will come later with Imila, and bring it down to the drying-ground."
"Who is Imila, Darmel?" asked Estel with sudden interest.
"Imila is our helper-horse, who carries great loads without effort and is sure-footed like a deer. She will bring this sack laughing all the way."
"Imila is a laughing horse?" asked Estel in happy amazement.
"You will see, young one, when we take her from the pasture."
"Rogarin is in the pasture! Maybe with Imila. Maybe he is laughing." Estel considered this, seriously. "That is good. He is very sad."
"We will go now to see the horses, Estel, if you wish," said Niboi. "You will show us Rogarin, and we will show you Imila."
"Yes!" cried Estel, happily. "Rogarin is wonderful."
"Look, Estel," said Ranon. "This little plant full of blue star-bells… We will ask for it to come with us." She bowed her head and closed her eyes, holding the tip of a branch between her index finger and thumb. Estel did the same with another small bough, and in his mind asked the plant to come with them.
Ranon opened her eyes and took the plant firmly by the base of its stem. She worked it one way and the other, and finally drew it gently from the ground. She kissed it and lowered it to Estel, who did so as well. As they walked, she broke off the roots, shook them and stored them in her pocket. The blue star-bell plant she gave to Estel.
"For Rogarin," she said. "This is a special treat. He will love it so, I am sure."
"Thank you, Ranon," said Estel. "I will give him now, and I will say you show me. He will say thank you in his horse-talk."
The four tripped down the mountain path in song and laughter. They made animal sounds in a variety of emotions, sounds from the elements of Nature, and whistled. The elves were amazed by the child's proficiency, twittering away like a bird on an early-morning branch. And when they crossed the bridge and neared the stables, the boy's whistle grew more shrill and pointed, and then a great whinny rose in answer.
"Rogarin," he said happily, and tugged at his new friends' hands. "Let us run."