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Mori paced about the small room; the only light in the darkness of the early morning, a candle. And it near burnt down to the plate it stood on. Stamo groaned and pulled the quilts over his head. He was tired of hearing his companion’s voice . . .
First it had been about the story the old woman had told. Mori had sat straight up on the straw filled mattress and said quite firmly, ‘I knew it!’ Stamo had sighed and propped himself up on one elbow, knuckling the tiredness from his eyes. ‘Knew what?’
While Stamo’s dreams had fled eastward to the rugged steppes and wide landscapes in which he now moved with ease, Mori’s had flown west and he began to talk about the Lady there. A Lady both of them knew quite well. She was a sister to their patron’s wife. ‘Do you remember,’ Mori had said, quite pleased with himself. ‘She made an entreaty, that her beloved trees have some who might watch over them. I’m sure those are the very creatures the old woman and that Halfling spoke of.’
Wishing to return to sleep, Stamo mumbled some affirmative that indeed it must be so. And wasn’t it clever of Mori to have put the pieces together. He was just easing himself back onto his pillow, when he felt his companion jostle him on the shoulder. ‘What’s that now?’ Mori whispered, getting up from the bed. Stamo could hear him fumbling about in the darkness, and then the quick, sudden light of the candle dispelled any hope of further sleep.
‘Best you not be doing that trick outside this small room’s walls,’ Stamo chided him. ‘These Northern men may mistake it for some shadow-craft.’ He sat up groggily on the edge of the bed and gathered the quilts about him for warmth. There were muffled sounds coming from beyond their shuttered window. Singing they thought, down in the courtyard their room overlooked, at the back of the inn. An odd assortment of noises, too. Not just off key in a drunken sort of way, but gruff in a way, and growling at times. And at others as high and light as the voice of some sweet tongued bird. Accompanying it were scratchings and scufflings as of branches scraping against wood in the wind or the heavy-footed steps of some large creature as it tried to move in time to the song.
‘It’s only some who’ve been awake all night,’ Stamo said. ‘Still singing; their bellies full of ale. There’s naught to be concerned about.’
‘Then they must have come while we were sleeping. And why are they standing about in the back yard of the inn and even more curious, how is it that they’re drunk?’ Mori looked expectantly at Stamo, who had lost his friend’s line of reasoning long ago. ‘The Elves,’ said Mori, to the further confusion of Stamo. ‘Who else do we know who speak Quenya?’
Mori’s hands were now on the latch that held closed the inner shutters of their window. Stamo had risen, too, curious now about his friend’s statements. He’d wrapped the top quilt from the bed about him in an attempt to keep away the cold. His eyes went wide at the small feathered form that fell in with a plop! onto his folded robe as Mori pulled the shutters open. And even more his surprise when the tiny wren opened his beak and made excuses for his sudden entrance.
‘The bird is talking!’ Stamo stuttered his gaze fixed on the now snoring form.
‘And quite drunk, by the smell of him,’ Mori added, his nose wrinkling at the sour odor of old ale upon the wren’s feathers. ‘Get dressed,’ he went on, scooping the inert form into his large hand. He tucked it carefully into the sleeve of his robe and motioned for Stamo to follow him down stairs.
The two made their way out of doors and round to the back of the inn. The trees about the area looked all in their place and round the warmth of the refuse heap were a few small animals poking about for scraps, or just huddling near the warmth of the coals. An overturned barrel lay near a broken down shed, empty of the ale it once held. And there, on the spine of the shack’s tattered roof, perched a snowy white owl, his great golden eyes staring at the two tall men who were just entering the courtyard proper.
‘Greetings, my friends!’ Mori called out gently in Quenya to the curious assembly. There were scuffling sounds as if others lurked in the shadows about the yard or beyond the yard among the trees. He scooped the still sleeping form of the wren from within his sleeve and held it out on his palm. The poor little bird appeared dead, so still was he. ‘Are you missing one of your number, perhaps?’
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