She opened the door and stepped out of the rainy dark.
She had traveled a long way and would travel longer still before sailing to Tol Eressea, where the Exiles now lived in peace with the Teleri. Hearing that Elves had gathered at the Shirefolk’s inn, she made her way there. If there were Elves and Hobbits, there would be Mortals too. Together they would make a congenial company for a solitary wayfarer.
She thought, It would be good to have company after so much solitude on the road.
Here it was. The Green Dragon Inn. The crowd-sound subsided as she made her way towards the bar. Pure Noldor, she was, with the great height, black hair, grey eyes, and facial bones to prove it. She saw Hobbits, Mortals, and many fair Elves. Sindar, no doubt , she thought.
“Greetings!” she said to the Mortal Woman who stood behind the bar. “Am I speaking with the proprietor of the Green Dragon?”
When the woman nodded and asked her name, she said, “Call me Huntress.” And indeed she looked the part. She was dressed, top to toe, in clothes made from the hide of the small red deer, native to the eastern forests. Her tunic and breeches fit easily and carried fringe at the sleeves and seams. Her black hair was wild and beautiful against the russet color, and it tangled around the quiver and bow on her back.
“That has been my name since I came, many long-years ago, to the House of Thranduil in Greenwood the Great. How you stare! Yes, I have lived from the Second Age to this the Fourth and seen the Great Greenwood pass through mirky shadows to the Eryn Lasgalen of today.”
The Inn’s owner seemed almost Elvish herself in her ability to anticipate a guest’s request. Huntress accepted a pottery mug of humming brown ale. She raised it first to the Inn lady and then to the gathered folk. And to their amusement, she began to sing:
By the banks of Bywater, where the water meets the road,
The Drag On Inn drags travelers in, to rest their weary loads.
The Mistress keeps a tavern there with drink so stout and strong,
The clientele all yell for ale and bellow drinking songs!
“Are you a bard, Huntress?” inquired the Inn lady, laughing. “You may call me Aman.”
“No, Aman” replied Huntress, “but I am married to Galadel, Thranduil’s minstrel to this very day. And I was the traveling companion of an Elf in whom the Teleri blood was pure, and you know no one in Arda sings like a Sea-Elf. She came with me to the House of Thranduil and we stayed there a long time. Her amilessi tercenyë [mother-name of insight] was ... Quill and she became Bard of the Elves of Mirkwood in those dark times.
Huntress’s face grew sad. “She and my husband taught me what minstrelsy I know.”
‘Why did you look sad?” asked Aman.
“When I think of my old companion, I am reminded of her unwitting part in the tragedy that befell Thranduil. But that is no story for so merry a gathering. And now, Mistress Aman, I must tell you – I have no coin to pay for this good drink.”
The smile was back on Huntress’s face. Her grey eyes twinkled like wood ash mixed with ice crystals. “Must you call for the constable?” she inquired.
[ October 24, 2003: Message edited by: Chathol-linn ]
|