[piosenniel]

Pio’s cheeks were flush from the wine and the dancing. She sat down at the table and watched as the three old friends moved as if in some current out of time. The years fell from their faces and the banked embers of their deep friendship flared up and lit their countenances from within.

Fresh pints were in their fists, and they egged on the singer. Bilbo it was, this time. “Give us something from that time you went out as the thief with all those dwarves and Gandalf.’ cried Merry, leaning forward, his eyes sparkling with mischief. ‘That one about them in your kitchen!’

Bilbo stood and shook his head, smiling as he did so. ‘Terrible guests they were.’ He said in a hushed voice, drawing his listeners in. He looked straight at Piosenniel, who had not heard the story before. Her eyes were fixed on him, eager for him to go on. ‘They have a dark sort of humor, Dwarves do. They nearly caused my heart to thump out of my chest when they offered to do the dishes.’

He thumped his tankard on the table in a booming sort of rhythm, his voice taking on the deeper intonations of his long ago Dwarven guests.

Chip the glasses and crack the plates!
Blunt the knives and bend the forks!
That's what Bilbo Baggins hates--

Smash the bottles and burn the corks!
Cut the cloth and tread on the fat!
Pour the milk on the pantry floor!
Leave the bones on the bedroom mat!

Splash the wine on every door!
Dump the crocks in a boiling bowl;
Pound them up with a thumping pole;
And when you've finished, if any are whole,
Send them down the hall to roll!

That's what Bilbo Baggins hates!
So carefully! Carefully with the plates!

Pio laughed delightedly and clapped her hands. ‘But that is wonderful!’ she said, impishly. ‘Just the sort of washing up party I should like to part of!’ Bilbo pretended to scandalized at this declaration by one of the fair folk and raised his bushy eyebrows at her.

‘Here’s one for you, Merry.’ Frodo stood forth and raised his tankard to his old companion. ‘Sam and I were the ones to hear this one. That time when Old Man Willow had grasped you in one of his great cracks and meant to squeeze the life out of you. As I recall, only your feet were sticking out when Tom and we got to you!’ Merry wrapped his arms about himself, recalling the strength and malice of the old tree.

Frodo sang out in a clear, fair voice, with a jolly lilt to it.

Hey dol! merry dol! ring a dong dillo!
Ring a dong! hop along! fal lal the willow!
Tom Bom, jolly Tom, Tom Bombadillo!
Hey! Come merry dol! derry dol! My darling!
Light goes the weather-wind and the feathered starling.
Down along under Hill, shining in the sunlight,
Waiting on the doorstep for the cold starlight,
There my pretty lady is, River-woman's daughter,
Slender as the willow-wand, clearer than the water.
Old Tom Bombadil water-lilies bringing
Comes hopping home again. Can you hear him singing?
Hey! Come merry dol! derry dol! and merry-o,
Goldberry, Goldberry, merry yellow berry-o!
Poor old Willow-man, you tuck your roots away!
Tom's in a hurry now. Evening will follow day.
Tom's going home again water-lilies bringing.
Hey! Come derry dol! Can you hear me singing?

Amaranthas leaned in close to Pio, tapping her on the foot with her cane. ‘Queer doings in that Old Forest! Didn’t I tell you?’

‘What about you, Master Merry?’ asked Pio. ‘I have heard some fine songs from these two gentle Hobbits. What have you to offer?’

‘I have one, Mistress Piosenniel.’ he said, setting his drink upon the table. ‘But I fear it is more dark a song than these others that you’ve heard.’ His face was grave, and his deep, rich voice sang out the song made not so long ago in Rohan.

We heard of the horns in the hills ringing,
the swords shining in the South-kingdom.
Steeds went striding to the Stoningland
as wind in the morning. War was kindled.
There Théoden fell, Thengling mighty,
to his golden halls and green pastures
in the Northern fields never returning,
high lord of the host. Harding and Guthláf,
Dúnhere and Déorwine, doughty Grimbold,
Herefara and Herubrand, Horn and Fastred,
fought and fell there in a far country:
in the Mounds of Mundburg under mould they lie
with their league-fellows, lords of Gondor.
Neither Hirluin the Fair to the hills by the sea,
nor Forlong the old to the flowering vales
ever, to Arnach, to his own country
returned in triumph; nor the tall bowmen,
Derufin and Duilin, to their dark waters,
meres of Morthond under mountain-shadows.
Death in the morning and at day's ending
lords took and lowly. Long now they sleep
under grass in Gondor by the Great River.
Grey now as tears, gleaming silver,
red then it rolled, roaring water:
foam dyed with blood flamed at sunset;
as beacons mountains burned at evening;
red fell the dew in Rammas Echor.

‘To Théoden King!’ said Merry, raising his mug. ‘To Théoden!’ came the response. ‘To you all.’ murmured Pio softly, raising her glass to them.

A pleasant silence fell upon the group, and glasses and tankards were refilled. Bilbo bowed toward Pio, saying, ‘Surely our fair hostess must have a song for us. Do you not?’

‘I love to sing, Master Bilbo. But I fear I only know the old songs well. The stories long forgotten here in Middle-earth.’ ‘Sing one for us anyway, Miz Pio.’ said Amaranthas. ‘But make it in plain language none of that Elvish, if you please.’

‘Well, then, here is one for Mister Frodo and Mister Bilbo, so lately come from the West.’ It was a plain-song she sang for them, in a fair, strong voice.

East of the Moon, west of the Sun
There stands a lonely hill;
Its feet are in the pale green sea,
Its towers are white and still,
Beyond Taniquetil
In Valinor.

Comes never there but one lone star
That fled before the moon;
And there the Two Trees naked are
That bore Night’s silver bloom,
That bore the globéd fruit of Noon
In Valinor.

There are the shores of Faëry
With their moonlit pebbled strand
Whose foam is silver music
On the opalescent floor
Beyond the great sea-shadows
On the marches of the sand
That stretches on forever
To the dragon-headed door,
The gateway of the Moon,
Beyond Taniquetil
In Valinor.

West of the Sun, east of the Moon
Lies the haven of the star,
The white town of the Wanderer
And the rocks of Eldamar.
There Wingelot is harboured,
While Eärendil looks afar
O’er the darkness of the waters
Between here and Eldamar –
Out, out beyond Taniquetil
In Valinor afar.

The last notes fell away. ‘Too somber, these last two songs!’ she said to Merry. ‘Pick up the tempo and the mood if you would. This is a party, not a wake for dead men and dying dreams.’

‘As you wish, Mistress Piosenniel.’ He turned to the Frodo and Bilbo and hummed a few bars of a livelier song. They grinned at his choice, and joined in –

Ho! Ho! Ho! to the bottle I go
To heal my heart and drown my woe.
Rain may fall and wind may blow,
And many miles be still to go,
But under a tall tree I will lie,
And let the clouds go sailing by . . .

They were on their third round of the verse, even Amaranthas had joined in with a hearty voice, when the door to the Inn opened, and the wind blew in another guest . . .

[ February 27, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]