[Child of the 7th Age]

Child stood beside the table in her cabin, with a faraway look on her face. How strange that inanimate objects, things that had no life of their own, could take on such meaning. She gazed at the tattered vellum the hobbit council had given her in recognition for helping the children. Then her fingers strayed to the plain green stone hung on a chain about her neck, never to be removed. Maura had told her it matched the sparkle in her eyes when she was excited or angry.

And now, in front of her, lay a new treasure. The mirror itself seemed very old. Its bronze frame was wrought in intricate designs that resembled vines and leaves clinging to branches suspended over a glazed pool.

Child's memories went back to her friend. Eager to be gone in the morning, Piosenniel would snatch up her mirror at the last instant. She remembered the Elf's exasperated smile as she surveyed her unruly curls bouncing in all directions. Usually, she would toss the mirror to one side and bind back her hair with a single wide ribbon. Then she'd be off to whatever friend or adventure called.

Rose had asked Child if there was any Elf-magic in its frame. Perhaps, it was like the mirror of Galadriel. But Child could not answer.

The hobbit lay the mirror flat on the table and stared into its shiny surface. Ancalimon had said that she should do this both for his sake and for that of her friend Maura. Even Piosenniel had mentioned it in her letter. Three friends, all sadly absent, yet alive in Child's heart.

Child stared transfixed waiting for something miraculous to happen, but nothing did. She looked again and again from many different angles. Still, the only thing she saw in the mirror was her own face. Perhaps something was wrong. She even tried to shake the mirror and gently tap its handle on the table. Once again, her own face gazed up from golden depths.

"Think, little Andreth," she whispered to herself. "Think what the grey peddler was trying to tell you."

They had been talking about history, or rather Child had been complaining about the lack of hobbit history. She had been grieving that Maura's name would be kept secret even from his own people, and that scenes of endurance and valor would forever be lost. Bird called this Eru's gift of forgetfullness, but Child had her doubts about the wisdom of such a gift.

First, Ancalimon had explained there might be other books of lore beyond those written within Arda. Then he had laughed and added something even stranger, that it was not only in written words that the story could be read and understood. And then he told her to gaze into Pio's mirror.

As Child looked again, the clear, sweet voice of Kali came inside her mind, with lilting memories of Beleriand:


I ride on the wind, my eyes drift back
To the receding hill and to you
Hope lies before me, love lies behind
In time, hope will call you to


And then, as she saw her own face reflected back, it hit her like a blaze of fire. It was in her own face and being that hobbit history was recorded, her face and those of her neighbors and friends.

For the words Kali remembered had never been written down. Neither were there any books outlining hobbit hearts or hobbit ways. But, as surely as Maura had once lived and breathed, part of him lay in her people even now. When she thought of Bilbo's writings or Frodo's love of Elvish things, she knew a piece of Maura lived on. And when she heard an ancient song spring from Kali's mind, she knew her people had not forgotten their own secret lore. They had just chosen to preserve it in their own lives, instead of through the books that so many other races had composed.

And which of these would last longer? The books made of paper or the people themselves. Child could answer that without hesitation. She remembered how the hobbits of Beleriand had chosen to safeguard their children, even at the cost of great suffering. And she knew that her neighbors in the Shire, as small and unlearned as they were, with no Elves about to teach them, would still make that very same choice.

And which would Maura prefer? To have his name remembered in some ancient, long dead tale, or to have his people preserve their values in their bones and heart? There was no question here. The hobbits' way with growing things and their closeness to the soil, the love they bore their children, and their willingness to help each other in bad times---all these were written bold even within the Shire. They were her lore and legacy.

And, if she wished her neighbors to find a bit more purpose in words and books as well as in the beautiful earth, that too could be answered by gazing in the mirror. For she, as much as Maura, bore responsibility for the teaching of the little ones, whether in one age or the next.

So Bird had spoken true about Eru's gift of forgetting. It had been given so that Child's people might endure their hardship and their grief. For it seemed that words of telling emptied out of hobbit heads very quickly and slipped through the mists towards an unknown shore.

But perhaps, mused Child, before Eru turned about, he pondered again on how small these hobbits were. And he feared his children might have trouble even remembering who they were. So, along with the forgetting, came one more boon. Eru took unwritten lore and wove it into their hearts and bones.

For, unlike Elves, hobbits could not dwell in fading memories. And, unlike Man, they would have no tomes to spell out the great feats of ancient times. Rather, they would keep their feet in the soil and learn to bring the little things into their daily lives. And in a world filled with battles and murders and solemn dooms, this would not be such a bad thing.

Then Child whispered, "Ancalimon, Maura, Piosenniel, I will not forget your friendship or the gifts of Eru." So she picked up the old mirror and placed it where she could easily see it in the mornings, that its lessons would be remembered as she went about her day.

[ August 25, 2002: Message edited by: Child of the 7th Age ]

[ August 25, 2002: Message edited by: Child of the 7th Age ]