tolkients

[tolkients]

Undergrowth and Underbellies

It’s really hard to pick a favorite piece of undergrowth in Middle-earth, since one of the most fantastic things about all of the stories is that under each and every stone, if you do some digging, you’ll find something. Being a reader today certainly helps, since having access to the Silmarillion makes the treasure trove of lore underpinning The Lord of the Rings all the easier to decipher. That said, if I absolutely had to pick a favorite, it would be tracing the bloodline of the dragons back to their progenitor, Glaurung. Even in his death, pierced through the underbelly quite like Smaug, we see the echoes of Siegfried in Turin, opening up even more avenues to trace both forward and back. ~Azeem

[tolkients]

 Have you ever wondered what happened to the Entwives? Did they even really exist? 

The Entwives are my favorite bit of undergrowth in Middle-earth, but I still don’t have a solid theory as to what became of them. I love coming up with various explanations but I think my favorite idea is that it really doesn’t matter at all. Maybe Treebeard simply wrote wishful songs about imaginary beings in his youth, and then sang them so many times that he began to believe them. Would that make you feel better or worse than just knowing that they once lived and were now all dead? The new game The Search for the Entwives (currently released only as a beta version to a limited audience) explores some of these possibilities, but it still leaves it pretty ambiguous. There are a lot of possible endings but you never actually get to see any Entwives. What ending would you want to see in the game? 

-Eleanor

[tolkients]

Life in the Pony

Life was good, and in the Prancing Pony, I was right where I needed to be.

Sure, recently, life had been a lot of things. Life had been boring for a good while, but boring was alright. 

“One more over here,” rang out a voice over the din. 

Life had been loud for some time, though not as loud as it was elsewhere. Closest we got were a couple of those Black Riders, but they were out of here soon enough. For a bit, life had been quite a bugger, but with Sharkey gone and that tiff at Bywater, that was all over and done with.

“Another round!” yelled another voice, in concert with the first. Been going through those right quick, but no matter, they’d earned them.

“Here we go, little masters,” I said as I deposited two more mugs before the two hobbits. I must ask, it has been quite a while since I’ve seen your whole party together again. Mister Gamgee came through here once again, a good bit back, but I’ve not seen Mister Underhill in years.”

A gloomy look took their faces, and the both of them looked back into their mugs. Mister Took was the first to speak.

“He’s… gone traveling,” he said, and then paused. “I fear we may not see him again around these parts.”

“Ah well, he’s where he needs to be,” Mister Brandybuck piped in. “And we’re where we need to be right now. And if we’re not, that’s what the beer’s for.”

The two of them shared a chuckle, and I heard another call for another mug from across the inn. 

Life was good, and in the Prancing Pony, I was right where I needed to be.  ~Azeem

[tolkients]

The Duel

There was a bard that bandied words about

And all through the court, none could match his tongue

Until the day he crossed a dragon’s snout

And began this duel of which songs are sung

Its looks, its mother, and even its hoard

All were said to be fair game to be mocked

The dragon then faltered, lacking a retort

For it seemed to lack the game that it talked

Not used to losing, the dragon grew near

And the bard realized that he went too far

Protest, he did, and began to feel fear

Excuses were made, but none cleared the bar

“T’was just a joke, a jape, a jest, a crack”

A flashing of teeth, and then, just a snack ~Azeem

[tolkients]

where troglodytes delight

Looking at all of Tolkien’s works, it’s interesting to think about his interpretation and use of “undergrowth” in story. Although it’s undeniable that his creation is rich with carefully planned out background, he clearly enjoys the freshness added by little bits of weirdness popping up throughout his stories. For more insight into his thoughts on undergrowth, see the essay he wrote as an undergrad about the collection of Finnish ballads known as The Kalevala.

In the essay, Tolkien asserts that Kalevala is not an epic, and that to make it one would be to strip away the “profusion of undergrowth” he so enjoys. A heartfelt defence is made for the less lofty-minded “queer troglodyte underworld of story” missing in other European literature. Contrasting it with the Welsh Mabinogion, Tolkien marvels at Kalevala for its lack of perceived background, seeming “to come fresh from the singer’s hot imagination of the moment.” These ideas are interesting when applied to Tolkien’s own masterpiece, The Lord of the Rings. Most people would indeed describe LOTR as an epic, and it clearly has background. Yet somehow, it still has plenty of moments with that fresh flavor of sudden invention. Those moments are what this blog is all about.

-Eleanor

[tolkients]

These Boots were Made for Striding

The only way to The Prancing Pony was through the Old Forest and as Molly quickly discovered, there was a reason why the hobbits prefer the stay in their snug hobbit holes and not the dark forest. She dreamt of being back in her hobbit hole all cozied up next to a crackling fire and plenty of food, but instead she was here. 

She stood in front of a large wooden door noting how uninviting the rectangular shape of it was. 

“Round would suit an inn far better,” she thought or maybe said aloud in a voice so quiet that not even she could hear it.

She ran her hand down the door. The shape may be atrocious, but Molly was not one to neglect feeling a fine wood grain. Tracing the grooves and circling the nails that stuck out just the slightest bit, her hand made its way to the door knob. It was metal, but the cold air made it feel like pure ice. Turning it evoked a whine and a creaking of wood as she pushed the door in.

The stream of gold that leaked out through the crack quickly turned into a flood as she opened the door entirely. The amber warmth engulfed her as she stood in awe of the enchanting smells and sounds, after tastes of the yellow heat.

“Unless you brought enough firewood to keep the fire warm against all that cold you’re lettin’ in, close the door!” A voice chuckled, thankfully sounding more inviting than angry.

“Huh? Oh, oh, sorry!” Molly stepped through the door and closed it behind her just in time to dodge a final frosty gust that threatened to blow her cloak right off of her.

She looked around to find her friend who invited her here, bribing her out of her hobbit bole with the promise of a fine night of food and drink. There were some hobbits and some men, some were deep into their night of drinking, some had just begun, but there was just one who was standing against a wall. She smiled as she made her way over to him.

She peered under the hood that kept his profile hidden away, “Walker?”

He looked up with a big smile and threw off his hood, “ah, you’ve remembered my code name.”

“Well, about that,” Molly paused, “it actually seems a bit lame, so I spent a lot of my walk here thinking about other names. I figured you likely chose this name for a reason, so I thought that a word with similar meaning would be best. Do you want to guess what I settled on?”

“I’ve never been too good at guessing, but I tell you what, if I guess right, then you pay for the first pint,” he crossed his arms with a sly grin on his face. “Is it… Hiker?”

There was a pause as Molly stared at him in shock.

“Was that it?” Walker cried in excitement.

“H-how did you think of a name that was even lamer?” They both broke into a deep laughter.

Still laughing, they found a seat and Walker asked the inn keeper for two pints on his tab. They chatted like the old friends that they were over their pints, which quickly needed to be replaced as they drank every drop in record time. They talked late into the night about any little thing they could think of, all light hearted dialogues of course. 

The moon was soon high, plenty of pints had been drank, and the purpose of the night began to weigh on the minds of Molly and Walker. There had been a reason for their meeting of course, if it had just been for some friendly discussion, Walker would have made the journey to meet her in the Shire rather than making her trek through the Old Forest. Though Molly hated her journey through the forest, she was glad that she didn’t have to smuggle Walker into the Shire. It turns out to be far easier to stack two hobbits and wrap them in a cloak to have them resemble a man rather than getting a man to look like two hobbits stacked underneath a cloak. Hobbits do love to gossip and bringing a non-hobbit into the Shire would simply give them too much to bother Molly about.

“Are you ready to face the forest again in the morning?” Walker asked with a tone of seriousness that was starkly different to the upbeat feeling that had proceeded it.

“I don’t know if I’ll ever be,” she paused. “Uh, Walker? There is something that I need to tell you.”

His face grew grave and he did not answer. He stayed silent and stared hard into Molly’s eyes.

“I didn’t see the hut… when I was walking here. I wasn’t in the wrong place, I was right where it should have been, but it just wasn’t there.”

Walker took a deep breath and let out a chuckle, but it didn’t make Molly feel much better. “You were just in the wrong place. You were terrified and terribly tired I’m sure. When we both go looking I’m sure we’ll find it.”

Molly knew that she hadn’t missed it and a pit formed in her stomach. “Yes, you’re probably right.”

The to-be apprentices sat there, both nervous, but not willing to say it. Walker had been so excited for tomorrow, the day when he officially became Tom Bombadil’s apprentice and learned the ways of the forest. He knew that Molly was terrified of the forest, but he was excited for her to learn about the river from Goldberry and for her to get over her childish fear of the monster she called “Old Man Willow.” His excitement wavered as Molly revealed the news. More than anything he wanted to think it was just a mistake, she is not the best navigator and likely just missed it, but for some reason he could not shake the fear that she was right. Had their masters left them before ever beginning their training? Surely not.

“Molly, we need some rest to tackle the trip tomorrow.”

“Yes.” Her heart was heavy and she blamed herself for the tense mood. 

Think! Say something happy!

“Oh, Walker?”

He looked up at her but again did not answer.

“I never told you the new code name I thought up for you!” She paused for effect, “Strider!”

There was a pause. Then Walker burst into a hearty laughter.

“And you said my idea was lame!” They laughed together with renewed enjoyment before they left for their rooms for the night.

Walker didn’t want to admit it, but he actually quite liked “Strider.” Though he had a feeling that name already had an owner.

~Bekki

[tolkients]

Bill the Pony: An Unsung Hero

“I am growing concerned. He should have awakened already,” a voice whined.

“Do you doubt Elrond? He said he will wake soon and that he is not badly wounded.” 

“Of course I don’t doubt Elrond,” the voice said with a hint of hurt at the question.

“Then be patient. He will awaken in due time.”

As Bill the Pony began to come to his senses he listened for familiarity amongst the voices. Yet, he could only focus on the nagging scent of fresh grass that was begging to be eaten. 

His eyes shot open and looked upon all the fine grass around him. His initial feeling of wonderment gave way to a feeling of fear as he realized he was laying on his side, a vulnerable position for a pony. He tried to stand, but that required far more energy than Bill seemed to have, so he tried to sit up at the very least. He heard a high pitched grunting and felt a fuzzy push on his side. Though, he did not know that source, it helped him sit up and he was thankful.

“Do not struggle, Bill,” the deeper voice said, “you are safe in Rivendell.”

“You’ve got to tell him more than that, Shadowfax. He’s probably never heard of Rivendell before.”

The sound of hooves on soft grass moved around Bill and stopped directly in front of him. Before him stood the mightiest horse he had ever laid eyes on. Its slender frame was adorned with defined muscles, the perfect physique for a fast steed.

“I am Shadowfax, the steed for Gandolf the Grey. There is little time to explain, Bill, because you must prepare for your journey.” The great horse said tersely.

“You must also prepare for Shadowfax’s really slow relaying of information,” the fox chortled, earning him a look from the horse. 

“Do you want me to inform him or crack jokes?” Shadowfax asked cooly.

Mustering all the strength he had, Bill asked the fox, “wh-what are you?”

“He,” said Shadowfax, “is an idiot.”

The fox giggled and hopped onto Bill’s back where he made himself comfortable.

“I’m also a talking fox, bet you haven’t met one of my type in the village. Oh, and my name is Carfax.”

Shadowfax continued, “I apologize for my companion, but there is much for me to tell you, so let us not become distracted. You are here in Rivendell, an Elvish town, and before you is the House of Elrond.”

Bill was confused because all he saw before him was Shadowfax.

Carfax laughed, “Look up, Bill.” 

Bill obeyed and saw an overhang that protruded from the castle like building on the mountain. Its grand pillars sparkled in the midday sun and it was the most beautiful scene that Bill had ever seen. He could see there were people meeting, discussing, what they were discussing he could not even guess. Soon he spotted Sam, the friendly hobbit, and he felt a sense of comfort wash over him.

As Bill took in the sight, a large eagle perched on the roof of the overhang caught his eye. It was absurdly large and it seemed to be looking right at him, which startled him a good bit. 

Carfax patted his head with a fuzzy paw, “don’t worry, he’s just listening. Once the meeting is over he will fly down and introduce himself. Oh, and you know, let us in on what they’ve decided.”

“Yes, the eagles are fantastic listeners. You were not yet awake, Bill, when he reported to us that you are to follow the Fellowship to Mordor to destroy The Ring. The council will soon adjourn and we will hear about the details of your journey.” Bill looked back to Shadowfax, “There’s far more to explain.” the great horse began and the fox flicked his tail, irritated by the brevity in his statement.

Shadowfax looked back up to the great eagle and saw the telling sign of two beats of his wing. 

“Impeccable timing, it looks that the meeting has just concluded. Let us walk, Bill, it’ll be good to regain your strength, and we shall hear what the eagle has to say.” Bill knew in time Shadowfax would explain. “I believe if you fulfill this role, that is all you will ever have to do. You can live forever with Tom and not even a celestial being would bat an eye.” 

Whoever Tom was, that prospect sounded nice to Bill, but he grew increasingly apprehensive of what must lie ahead for him. Shadowfax silently led the way on one of the paths that led away from the pasture and Bill followed, Carfax still comfortably riding on his back.

~Bekki

[tolkients]

Scaled and Ailed

The little dragon sat up in bed

“I don’t feel right,” he thought in his head

“My tummy hurts; it feels full of lead

It must have been something on which I have fed.”

He thought of all the things he had eaten

He had tea and carrots and meat an’

Award winning spaghetti so good

That it could never be beaten

“Well, I have eaten nothing weird,

But still my pain has not disappeared.

For an appointment, my calendar has been cleared,

Because I will have to go to the doctor, just as I feared.”

When he went to the doctor he said “I feel crummy”

“Where?” She asked

“Well, right here in my tummy

But doc, there’s something I must say and I’ll put it quite dumbly.”

“I have not yet gotten my fire

I blow and I wheeze, but I tire

Because no matter what I do, a fire I cannot acquire

And for a dragon I am not much to admire”

“I take the risk of sounding lame

But if this pain is due to my flame

Then I do not want it and I will be tame

Because I guess being a dragon is just not my game”

“Cheer up little lad, don’t give up on your profession

For you I have an uplifting confession

You should stop eating spaghetti, that’s my suggestion

Because your pain is merely indigestion”

So the little dragon went back to his bed

On his golden pillow he laid his head

“I’ll never stop eating spaghetti,” he said

“I’ll just learn to love antacids instead.”

~Bekki

[tolkients]

Goldberry, the River-Daughter

Tom Bombadil:

Oh Goldberry, Goldberry, where did you come from?

The river of course, so blue, so blue.

But who made your laugh, your smile, your sunshine?

So musical, so beautiful, so yellow, so true.

The River People:

Oh River-daughter, River-daughter, where did you go to?

You’ve left the river, so we’re blue, so blue.

You made us laugh, you made us smile.

Your sunshine is gone, what are we to do?

Tom Bombadil:

You pulled me under, under the river,

But I spoke to you and you let me go,

And the day after I asked you to marry me,

Asked you to stay though joy and through woe.

The River People:

He took you away, that old Tom Bombadil,

You tried to drown him and married him instead.

Took yourself away, away from the river,

Never looked back, just let yourself be led.

Tom Bombadil:

Come with me, come with me, I said, I said,

Stay with me through trouble and strife,

Make my house happier, make me happier,

Asked you to be my wife – my wife!

The River People:

You’ve left us alone, the River-daughter, the River-daughter,

You left the river, swam out of our sight.

Never came back, not even to see us,

Now it’s just dark, all day, all night.

Tom Bombadil:

You make me so happy, my beautiful Goldberry,

As I dance around the garden with you.

Your hair so golden spills all around us,

Your eyes they sparkle with mischief, they do.

The River People:

Don’t you remember the burbling of the river,

The rustling of the fish as they slip through river weeds,

The splashing of the beavers as they build their dam,

The boasting of otters as they sing of the day’s deeds?

Tom Bombadil:

You miss the water lilies so I journey to the river,

Pick them myself to bring back to you,

You look so sad when I come around the corner,

Surrounded by pots filled only with dew.

The River People:

Where has your heart gone, where is your heart?

The river people, the river people, is it still with us?

Or has it gone to old Tom Bombadil,

So quickly, so quietly, without fuss or muss?

Tom Bombadil:

Oh Goldberry, Goldberry, are you happy, are you happy?

Where is your heart, where is it to be found?

Is it with me, is it with old Tom Bombadil?

Or is it still to the river bound?

Both:

Oh Goldberry the River-daughter, the River-daughter Goldberry,

Don’t leave us alone, don’t leave us alone!

Stay with us, come back to us, oh please, oh please –

Don’t leave us to our sighs and our moans.

Goldberry:

Oh Goldberry, Goldberry, the River-daughter!

Always doomed to be torn in two,

Loyalty to family, loyalty to husband – 

What is a Goldberry to do?

– Miranda

[tolkients]

J.R.R. Tolkien invented heraldic devices for various peoples of Middle-earth, ranging in time from the early days of the First Age (tales of which are found in The Silmarillion) to the end of the Third Age and the beginning of the Fourth (found in The Lord of the Rings). The First Age heraldic devices are primarily for elves, but some were created for the first of the men.  The Third/Fourth Age devices belong primarily to men – those of Rohan and Gondor, and, of course, the device belonging to the new king, Aragorn.

Lúthien Tinúviel’s story is found both in The Silmarillion and the volume Beren and Lúthien, as well as being mentioned in The Lord of the Rings.  An immortal elf, she fell in love with Beren, a mortal man, and ultimately chose to live a mortal life in order to be with him.  Lúthien is the only character that Tolkien created two heraldic devices for.  

This cross-stitch pattern was created based on Lúthien’s second heraldic device, Tolkien’s drawing of which was featured on the cover of the original 1977 edition of The Silmarillion.  If stitched it would measure five inches by five inches (using 14-count Aida fabric).  The cross-stitch pattern for Lúthien’s second heraldic device can be found here.

More information about all of Tolkien’s heraldic devices can be found here.

-Miranda

[tolkients]

J.R.R. Tolkien invented heraldic devices for various peoples of Middle-earth, ranging in time from the early days of the First Age (tales of which are found in The Silmarillion) to the end of the Third Age and the beginning of the Fourth (found in The Lord of the Rings). The First Age heraldic devices are primarily for elves, but some were created for the first of the men.  The Third/Fourth Age devices belong primarily to men – those of Rohan and Gondor, and, of course, the device belonging to the new king, Aragorn.

Lúthien Tinúviel’s story is found both in The Silmarillion and the volume Beren and Lúthien, as well as being mentioned in The Lord of the Rings.  An immortal elf, she fell in love with Beren, a mortal man, and ultimately chose to live a mortal life in order to be with him.  Lúthien is the only character that Tolkien created two heraldic devices for.   

This cross-stitch pattern was created based on Lúthien’s first heraldic device, Tolkien’s drawing of which can be found here, on the Bodleian Library’s website, which holds many of Tolkien’s papers.  If stitched it would measure five inches by five inches (using 14-count Aida fabric).  The cross-stitch pattern for Lúthien’s second heraldic device can be found here.

More information about all of Tolkien’s heraldic devices can be found here.

– Miranda

[tolkients]

    Works edited and published by Tolkien’s son Christopher generally take the forefront in presenting the rest of Middle-earth to eager readers looking for other doorways into that world, however, a close look at the cover of The Story of Kullervo will reveal his name is not present. Instead, Dr. Verlyn Flieger edited and compiled this document, which contains Tolkien’s first ever short story for the first time in a published volume, also titled “The Story of Kullervo,” written before his service in the Great War and before he truly began work on Middle-earth. The story is an unfinished rendition of a Finnish legend about the same character, originally recorded in the Kalevala, and is not set within Middle-earth at all. As his earliest prose work, it represents the genesis of a number of Tolkien’s literary preoccupations. Characters like Éowyn, Túrin, and others find some of their original inspirations here, and scholars have tracked some of his language work back to this story.

     The story, both in the Kalevala and as it is told here, is deeply tragic and above all other things strange. His father murdered by his evil uncle Untamo, Kullervo, whose name means Wrath, is raised in slavery along with his sister Wanona, meaning Weeping, by his bitter, depressed mother. He meets a magical dog who assisted his father named Musti and survives a number of attempts by Untamo to end his life. After these failed, Untamo sells Kullervo east into the dangerous land of Russia to serve under a blacksmith and his harsh wife. From there, things somehow get even worse for the poor antihero, but I will not elaborate too long here. For those familiar with Tolkien’s The Children of Húrin, I will simply say that the story closely resembles that of Túrin, but with a markedly lower number of dragons, and leave it at that.

    The strange tone of the story is complimented by an equally strange, musical, mostly punctuation-less prose broken up by poems and songs. Characters often have multiple names and Tolkien switches between them with little warning. Putting it kindly, it is at times rather hard to follow. It ends, of course, right before the climax of the story, in the middle of a sentence, no less, and we are left with nothing but Tolkien’s notes to fill out its conclusion. For many readers, these things alone would make the story rather difficult to stomach.

    However, for those interested in the development of Tolkien’s world specifically or worldbuilding in general, both the story and the accompanying essays could prove rather useful, and even captivating. In Kullervo’s mother, we see Éowyn as Gandalf describes her to Éomer, speaking into “the darkness, alone, in the bitter watches of the night, when all her life seemed shrinking, and the walls of her bower closing in about her, a hutch to trammel some wild thing in.” In Kullervo, we, of course, see Túrin Turambar. The beginnings of some of Tolkien’s language development may stem from the names and epithets of the characters contained within this story. These are just some examples, and inevitably there are some that I missed as well. For the careful reader, echoes of Tolkien’s later legendarium and writings might appear around every turn of phrase.

    The essays, which make up the majority of the book, provide incredible insight into Tolkien’s development as a writer and academic. Tolkien’s essay on the Kalevala, presented here in two forms, gives its reader an insight into the sort of stories that captivated the author in his youth. Like all of Tolkien’s works, they are also beautifully written. They convey a particular enthusiasm about story and story-making that seems to carry into Tolkien’s later work. Finally, Dr. Flieger’s own essay at the end of the collection gives the reader context, connecting the various parts of the story to Tolkien’s later legendarium succinctly and interestingly. Like Tolkien’s work, her writing is also understandable, beautiful, and even funny, especially in its description of Kullervo as someone who you simply can’t take anywhere.

    The Story of Kullervo is a strange collection for a strange story. Though it has the appearance of a work of fantasy, the collection is mostly essays, and the story is both unfinished and not original. It is essentially Kalevala fanfiction, but that is not meant to discredit it. Reading the story is enjoyable, if often confusing and eventually slightly unfulfilling, as we are bereft of its conclusion. It is certainly not for everyone, even though the beautiful artwork that usually adorns its cover draws uninitiated passers-by in. However, for a reader willing to accept the story for what it is, interested in Tolkien’s engagement with some of Europe’s weirdest mythology, and prepared to read an academic essay rather than a fantasy novel, this book is indispensable.

- Clay

[tolkients]

          There was much clamor in the Prancing Pony, for travelers always seemed to arrive with news, much of it grim, and the town’s inhabitants hungered to hear of the events of the far-off world, and how those events might come to affect them. Amongst this clamor, a dwarf named Krub (formerly) of The Blue Mountains, a man named Pell Goatleaf, and a hobbit named Grimbald Gamwich (called Grim, Grimmy, or by those who did not hold him in high favor, Baldy), all of them regulars, sat at a booth together, as was their custom at the end of each long day.

           “That strange fellow is back,” the dwarf commented, nodding over towards a booth containing a singular, road-worn, hooded, and muddy man.

           Pell shook his head. “Don’t like his sort. Always coming in here and sitting alone without talking to anyone. It ain’t natural.”

           “I don’t mind him much.” Grim responded. “He keeps to his business and I keep to mine, just the way it ought to be.” Pell waved his hand in disdain and emitted a guttural scoff. Just then, Mr. Butterbur entered with a company of four hobbits in traveling clothes, introducing them as Mr. Underhill (a chorus of applause from the local Underhills accompanied the announcement), Mr. Took, Mr. Brandybuck, and Mr. Gamgee.” He then proceeded to swiftly introduce all the patrons of the inn, drawing only confused looks from the four newcomers as they attempted to collect these names.

           “Gamgee? Sounds a bit like Gamwich.” Grim pondered. “Maybe a distant cousin of mine.”

           “You haven’t got any relations that’d be rubbing elbows with a Brandybuck, Baldy.” Krub chortled. The Underhills quickly gained possession of their supposed distant relation, pulling him into a gaggle of gathering hobbits. Over the clamor they heard the newcomer announce his interest in “history and geography” at which all three scoffed, but then Grim caught the words “book” and “collect information about hobbits living outside the shire” and suddenly sprang from the table and rushed to converse with the, now highly respected, Mr. Underhill. As the hobbits all clamored to tell their stories, give their names, and inform Mr. Underhill of who to speak to and about what, Krub and Pell turned to other conversation, which Grim found unsavory.

           “More trickling up the Greenway today,” the man commented. “There’s bad news from the south. The way I hear it, the roads down south aren’t safe anymore. Merchants won’t go anymore, and it seems the only way anyone travels these days is north, away from whatever is going on down there.”

           “War, I hear.” The word rolled uncomfortably off the dwarf’s mouth; he was not accustomed to saying it. “And wolves, trolls, and all other manner of awful things roaming the wilds again.”

           “These newcomers seem to be traveling south.” Pell wondered. “Bet they’ve got something to do with it.”

           “I haven’t known a hobbit to be up to something so unsavory, except perhaps the bagman, or whatever he was called, who disappeared at his own party all those years back.” Suddenly, Grim returned, long-faced and grumbly.

           “He couldn’t have cared less for what any of us had to say. I’m not certain what sort of book he’ll be writing, if he doesn’t mean to listen to anyone’s stories.” The hobbit’s voice was tinged with a flavor of indignation. He did not like having been turned away.

           Suddenly, a man called out from the din of an argument between two groups of men, one newcomers from the south and the other locals, saying, “If room isn’t found for them, they’ll find it for themselves. They’ve a right to live, same as other folk.” The locals grumbled and turned away, apparently not wishing to openly argue with the fellow, who no-one seemed to particularly like. Even the other foreigners shied away from him, as if intimidated. Krub and Pell shook their heads in disapproval, but Grim remained lost in his moping. However, as Underhill’s star fell, two of the others’ rose: Misters Brandybuck and Took, telling stories of the collapse of the Town Hole in Michael Delving that roused laughter from the growing audience. Grim suddenly found himself caught up in listening to the story, but neither of the big folk cared much about the comings and goings of Shire mayors.

          Pell pointed to the strange fellow, “Well, he seems interested, that much is certain.” Krub looked to see Mr. Underhill standing near the mud-soaked man. He shook his head.

          “Knew he’d fall into bad company,” the dwarf declared, seeming rather proud of himself for his foresight. They turned back to the hobbits, where Mr. Took was giving an account of a certain hobbit by the name of Baggins, who apparently gave a rather strange speech at his 111th birthday. However, just as he was about to reach the climax of the tale, Mr. Underhill suddenly jumped onto a table and thanked the present company. The crowd, however, called for a song, and he broke into a rendition of a “There is an inn, a merry old inn,” which was received with such raucous cheer that he performed it a second time. He jumped up into the air, fell, and clattered onto the table, and just as Krub, Grim, and Pell were about to burst into mocking laughter, he simply disappeared from sight.

          “What sort of nonsense is this!” Pell cried, standing up and slamming his hand on the table, but suddenly Mr. Butterbur burst into the room. Soon, one of the Mugworts accosted him, and the two argued in front of the fire about Mr. Underhill’s disappearance.

          “I think he was an apparition.” Pell concluded rather surely. “A spirit of the old barrow-downs who wandered into town as a curse. Maybe they are angry for us for opening their ancestral lands to these foul foreigners!” But suddenly, Mr. Underhill appeared again.

          “Of course there’s a mistake!” he said. “I haven’t vanished. Here I am! I’ve just been having a few words with Strider in the corner.”

          “I knew he was bad news!” Krub declared again, quite loudly in fact, and a number of others looked at him as though he was rather crass and rude. Well, they were altogether right in that estimation, but the dwarf still took offense.

          “Come on,” Pell said, now tired and confused, “Let’s get out of here before something else strange happens. I’ve rather had my fill for one night.”

          “I agree. All this disappearing and appearing and talking to rangers in darkened corners. It surely isn’t for me. I’m a simple sort, a village hobbit.” Grim said proudly. Pell and Krub suffered it silently, now was the not the time to tease him.

          “At the very least,” Pell said, “he’s given us quite a story to tell everyone who wasn’t there.” They all agreed on that, at the very least, as they walked off to their homes.  

- Clay

[tolkients]

Draco Fabulosus Europaeus

The wandering gleeman’s word-hoard

Grows suffused with slithering serpents

And warriors wounding winged wyrms:

Dragons drawn of dire dagger-mouths

And vile, venomous, green-misted vapor.

The baleful beast burrowed with boundless gold,

Sleeping silently with sinful selfish dreams,

Thunderously wakes to the thief taking trophies

From his hoard, and hungers to cast harm

As a rain of fiery revenge on realms of men.

Hapless heroes hunting the horrid beasts

Destined to death by dagger-claw or

Cryptic curse, clamor to cleave with

Battle-born blade into the belly, in

Exalting triumph executes his own ecstatic end.

- Clay

[tolkients]

As the sun of late september over distant summit sank,

The moon was bright, the breeze was brisk, upon the grassy bank.

A little girl, in lavish dress but owning nothing more

Came at last upon the beast she’d long been searching for.

Flashing eyes, flaring nose, flaming puffs of smoke

Glaring in the glinting light with grave grandeur he spoke.

‘What are you, oh little thing, prowling on the plain?

Beware of me!’ he fiercely cried, but his warning was in vain.

For this small child, in years of age no more than eight or nine,

Trusted tender tameness could be glimpsed within his eyes.

‘Your great long face and crested neck take shape often in song

and near your nape though seldom seen a pair of wings stretch strong.’

‘You’re wrong,’ he snarled, ‘I have no wings, yet even still I fly,

Tell me why you’ve sought me out, for fear that you shall die!’

‘Your teeth are sharp, your ears are long, your tail whips through the air,

You’re fearsome but I know that you’re less frightening than fair.

‘I seek you with good reason, sir,’ the little girl explained.

‘And if you will not have me I will die upon this plain.

My father’s dead, my mother gone, and I’ve nowhere to stay.

The only hope I hold is that you’ll bear me far away.’

Hearing this stirred in the beast a sudden sympathy

Lowering his heavy head into her hand, spoke he:

‘Never have I suffered man to burden me with things,

But grant I you this single time the strength within my limbs.’

She gripped his neck and clambered up upon his mighty back,

Wrapped her arms around him as he flew into the black. 

With hardened paws he beat the ground with thunderous fearsome force

After all, in the scheme of things, what is a dragon but a horse?

-Eleanor

forbidden knowledge