"What are you called?"
"Hmm, well, hmm, I do not know the correct way to say it in your tongue. I suppose you could call me...Twig. Yes, I think Twig will do."
"Twig?" asked Herlion curiously. It seemed an odd name for a person who was well over six feet tall.
"Well, I am still very young, you see. When I am older, my name will be longer," explained Twig, which made no more sense to the two men than did his name. "But, Matau and Herlion, surely those are not your right names. We have only just met." He shook his head a little, which caused a rustling noise, something like a tree that was blown by the wind.
"Well," said Matau, "That shouldn't make much difference. A name's a name."
Twig appeared to be a little embarassed, though it was hard to tell under all the draperies. "Of course, of course, I keep forgetting that you have different customs than in my homeland."
"Where are you from, Twig?"
"Hmm, well, I do not know the name in your tongue. Actually, I do not know the name at all. We do not talk much, and never needed a name, for all knew where we were." Twig's answer was not meant to be vague, he honestly didn't know. "I am strange, to my mother," he murmured, as if talking to himself. "She does not understand my longing for the wilds, my wish to be where the trees are not placed in mathematically precise rows, where the weeds can grow alongside the flowers...I am sorry. I should not be rambling on like this. Can you direct me to Fangorn Forest? I would very much like to go there."
|