The Barrow-Downs Discussion Forum - View Single Post - Tol-in-Gaurhoth LXIII: The Cottage of Lost Play

Mnemosyne · 07-18-2009, 12:22 AM

Inziladun was fairly certain it was not scientifically possible. But there the cottage had stood, right out of a younger Tolkien’s imagination, perfectly hobbit-sized (but for the lack of hobbits in the mythos at the time) until you stepped inside, at which point either it grew or you shrank. It was rather confusing.

But inside—ah, it already felt like being within a tale, and somehow that made up for the physical impossibilities. There was a small entryway for coats and such things, but then that opened up into a vast hall with a fire burning merrily in the hearth at the center. Whoever had made this had obviously put a lot of thought; any elf could be content here, to tell tales and sing songs until time’s gloaming.

“It is roughly based,” said his host, “on the Hall of Fire at Imladris, of course.” He was a rather short fellow with curly hair, but Inziladun was not quite ready to say he was a hobbit—the hardened, weathered look on his face was something he could never imagine a hobbit wearing, not to mention the shoes on his feet. “You should see some of the other rooms later; they are quite delightful.”

“Maybe when a few of the others show up,” said Inziladun. He smiled and nibbled at the refreshment that had been laid out at the sideboard. “I take it you stole the pantry from Bag End?”

“Both of them, sir,” said the—he realized with a sigh that he was already beginning to refer to the fellow as a hobbit. “And the cellar. Though I imagine they’re better stocked than the Shire could ever have been, what with modern refrigeration and all.”

“Tell, me, exactly—whose idea was this, and why?”

“Beg pardon?”

“This whole place? I’ve never heard of it before; no one as far as I know has heard of it, or if they have they’ve kept it secret from the internet. It must have taken a lot of time and dedication.”

“Believe me,” said the hobbit, “it did.” He nodded sagaciously. “But as for your other questions—well, they’ll have to wait until—”

Just then there came a knock on the door.

“Let me get that,” said the hobbit. “That may be—” he consulted a slip of paper. “Yes, I do believe that is Rikae at the door just now!”

* * *

“Hello?” said autume98 as she entered what very clearly appeared to be the common room of the Prancing Pony. “I’m new here; joined the board and got an invitation. Er… I know sally in real life…”

“Really?” A rather sturdy-looking man rose from one of the tables and extended his arm. “I’m Nogrod,” he said, in slightly accented English. “You must say hello to her for me when all this is done! Welcome! Strange place, isn’t it?”

“Strange indeed,” said a figure whom autume had not noticed before. He was lurking in the corner, his boots resting upon a table.

autume’s eyes widened.

“Sorry,” said the stranger, “I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time.” He swung his feet off the table and got up. “McCaber at your service. And what is your name?”

* * *

The walk inside did not feel very inside-y, thought Boromir88. It almost reminded him of what he’d always thought heading into Narnia felt like, starting out indoors and ending up outside. And once the corridor of trees ended he could see why.

It was like stepping into ancientry. There were stars overhead, even though it was only noon outside, and timeless waters lapped at a sandy bank nearby. On the grass next the water there were trestle tables laden with food, for hundreds upon hundreds of guests—but he only saw three other people in the clearing.

“Hi!” said one of them, a young woman with auburn hair. “I’m Fea. And you are…”

“Boro,” said Boromir88.

“Huh. You look younger than I thought.”

There was an awkward pause.

“I’m kidding,” said Fea.

“And I,” said the other woman in the group, who had risen much more sedately, “am Lalaith. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance after all this time.”

“And who’s the final person?” said Boromir, looking at the blond-haired stranger in nautical garb.

“Oh, him?” said Fea. “He was there to greet me. He won’t tell us his name.”

* * *

“Wonderful,” said Nessa as she sat back on one of the chairs, sated. “This is eating.”

“I’d feel a lot better if this thing were working,” said Nerwen. She was prodding at her camera, but for some strange reason it wouldn’t even switch on. “I don’t understand.”

“Technology doesn’t always work the same here,” said the hobbit.

“I’ll say,” said Inziladun. His cell phone was switched on just fine, but he couldn’t get any signal.

“Well,” said Eönwë, coming from a nearby alcove, “I can tell you that the modern plumbing works. Even the toilets are themed!”

“I’m ready if everyone else is,” said Rikae. “I think our host said something about a tour?”

* * *

“Beautiful,” said Shasta as the strange elf led them through the marble hallway. “Is this supposed to be Minas Tirith?”

“No,” said McCaber. “It’s too golden.”

“Quite correct,” said the elf. “This is modeled after the palace at Armenelos. And through the alcove on the left is a stairwell leading to the inside of the pillar of Umbar and the great globe that was set up there in commemoration of the humiliation of Sauron.”

“I’m climbing it,” said Nogrod. And he began to do so, and the others had little choice but to follow suit.

The crystal ball at the top was distorting, but laid about around it was such a wide variety of lands that Nogrod knew it was impossible for them to really be inside the same cottage that his carriage had pulled up to.

“It is marvelous, is it not?” said the elf. “This is an excellent way to see all that we have under this roof. Where would you like to go next?”

* * *

“I hope there’s a set path here, and one that doesn’t involve death,” said Pitchwife. “I understand the appreciation for Tolkien’s use of horror, but really—”

There was a gasp from a few feet back. “There are dead things—dead faces—in the water!”

“Well, yeah,” said Fea, “it’s called the Dead Marshes for a reason.”

“No, look,” said Lalaith. “The faces themselves…”

Pitchwife traced a few precarious steps back. “Is that… Peter Jackson?”

“A joke,” said their guide from far ahead. “You’ll also find Philippa Boyens and Fran Walsh a few graves over, as well as just about every WETA geek who worked on the films.”

“It’s a very realistic joke,” muttered Pitchwife. “And creepy.”

“So,” said Fea, “how much do I have to pay you to get you to keel over face-first into the water, Boro?”

“A lot,” said Boromir.

* * *

“That,” said Inziladun, “is impressively obscure.” The hut had no identifying marks except for the stone lying nearby with smoke marks on its base.

“I’m also quite fond of the Mewlips,” said the hobbit. “Best not to go down there alone; last person who went exploring down there never came back.” He shook his head sorrowfully. “Poor Mr. Sibley.”

“Wait, what?” said Eönwë.

The hobbit merely smiled.

* * *

“And this,” said the elf, “is Niggle’s Parish.”

“The tree!” cried Nogrod.

“Something’s wrong with it,” said autume. “I mean, unless Tolkien liked huge trees…”

“Sir, this isn’t Hirilorn, is it?” said McCaber.

“No,” said the elf. “It’s the Tree of Tales.”

Shasta nodded. But it did not look like a healthy tree. Up, it stretched, up into the sky, until everything growing was masked by the grey clouds that covered the area.

Nogrod picked up a few leaves from the ground—the only leaves from the tree that could be seen. They were brown, dry, and dead; and while they gave off a pleasant enough odor and crackled quite nicely in his hands, they were still dead and no living ones could be found.

* * *

“It is getting late,” said the mariner. “Let me show you your rooms so that you can prepare yourselves for the dinner.” And with that he led them down a pathway that turned into a hallway with thirteen doors set on one side. “If you continue down this hallway, a stairwell will lead you to the dining room. A bell will ring ten minutes before dinner is to be served.

“Your room will be here, Pitchwife.” He motioned to a room more or less in the middle of the cluster. “Your luggage should be inside.”

Pitchwife opened the door, expecting to see something very like a well-apportioned hotel room.

Instead what greeted his eyes was a jumble of boxes and odd parts of furniture, so familiar to him that it was striking.

It was his room from back home.

Pitchwife took two steps back. “I have a bad feeling about this,” he said.

07-18-2009, 12:22 AM	#2
Mnemosyne Ghost Prince of Cardolan Join Date: Feb 2009 Location: Between the past and the future Posts: 1,166	Inziladun was fairly certain it was not scientifically possible. But there the cottage had stood, right out of a younger Tolkien’s imagination, perfectly hobbit-sized (but for the lack of hobbits in the mythos at the time) until you stepped inside, at which point either it grew or you shrank. It was rather confusing. But inside—ah, it already felt like being within a tale, and somehow that made up for the physical impossibilities. There was a small entryway for coats and such things, but then that opened up into a vast hall with a fire burning merrily in the hearth at the center. Whoever had made this had obviously put a lot of thought; any elf could be content here, to tell tales and sing songs until time’s gloaming. “It is roughly based,” said his host, “on the Hall of Fire at Imladris, of course.” He was a rather short fellow with curly hair, but Inziladun was not quite ready to say he was a hobbit—the hardened, weathered look on his face was something he could never imagine a hobbit wearing, not to mention the shoes on his feet. “You should see some of the other rooms later; they are quite delightful.” “Maybe when a few of the others show up,” said Inziladun. He smiled and nibbled at the refreshment that had been laid out at the sideboard. “I take it you stole the pantry from Bag End?” “Both of them, sir,” said the—he realized with a sigh that he was already beginning to refer to the fellow as a hobbit. “And the cellar. Though I imagine they’re better stocked than the Shire could ever have been, what with modern refrigeration and all.” “Tell, me, exactly—whose idea was this, and why?” “Beg pardon?” “This whole place? I’ve never heard of it before; no one as far as I know has heard of it, or if they have they’ve kept it secret from the internet. It must have taken a lot of time and dedication.” “Believe me,” said the hobbit, “it did.” He nodded sagaciously. “But as for your other questions—well, they’ll have to wait until—” Just then there came a knock on the door. “Let me get that,” said the hobbit. “That may be—” he consulted a slip of paper. “Yes, I do believe that is Rikae at the door just now!” * * * “Hello?” said autume98 as she entered what very clearly appeared to be the common room of the Prancing Pony. “I’m new here; joined the board and got an invitation. Er… I know sally in real life…” “Really?” A rather sturdy-looking man rose from one of the tables and extended his arm. “I’m Nogrod,” he said, in slightly accented English. “You must say hello to her for me when all this is done! Welcome! Strange place, isn’t it?” “Strange indeed,” said a figure whom autume had not noticed before. He was lurking in the corner, his boots resting upon a table. autume’s eyes widened. “Sorry,” said the stranger, “I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time.” He swung his feet off the table and got up. “McCaber at your service. And what is your name?” * * * The walk inside did not feel very inside-y, thought Boromir88. It almost reminded him of what he’d always thought heading into Narnia felt like, starting out indoors and ending up outside. And once the corridor of trees ended he could see why. It was like stepping into ancientry. There were stars overhead, even though it was only noon outside, and timeless waters lapped at a sandy bank nearby. On the grass next the water there were trestle tables laden with food, for hundreds upon hundreds of guests—but he only saw three other people in the clearing. “Hi!” said one of them, a young woman with auburn hair. “I’m Fea. And you are…” “Boro,” said Boromir88. “Huh. You look younger than I thought.” There was an awkward pause. “I’m kidding,” said Fea. “And I,” said the other woman in the group, who had risen much more sedately, “am Lalaith. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance after all this time.” “And who’s the final person?” said Boromir, looking at the blond-haired stranger in nautical garb. “Oh, him?” said Fea. “He was there to greet me. He won’t tell us his name.” * * * “Wonderful,” said Nessa as she sat back on one of the chairs, sated. “This is eating.” “I’d feel a lot better if this thing were working,” said Nerwen. She was prodding at her camera, but for some strange reason it wouldn’t even switch on. “I don’t understand.” “Technology doesn’t always work the same here,” said the hobbit. “I’ll say,” said Inziladun. His cell phone was switched on just fine, but he couldn’t get any signal. “Well,” said Eönwë, coming from a nearby alcove, “I can tell you that the modern plumbing works. Even the toilets are themed!” “I’m ready if everyone else is,” said Rikae. “I think our host said something about a tour?” * * * “Beautiful,” said Shasta as the strange elf led them through the marble hallway. “Is this supposed to be Minas Tirith?” “No,” said McCaber. “It’s too golden.” “Quite correct,” said the elf. “This is modeled after the palace at Armenelos. And through the alcove on the left is a stairwell leading to the inside of the pillar of Umbar and the great globe that was set up there in commemoration of the humiliation of Sauron.” “I’m climbing it,” said Nogrod. And he began to do so, and the others had little choice but to follow suit. The crystal ball at the top was distorting, but laid about around it was such a wide variety of lands that Nogrod knew it was impossible for them to really be inside the same cottage that his carriage had pulled up to. “It is marvelous, is it not?” said the elf. “This is an excellent way to see all that we have under this roof. Where would you like to go next?” * * * “I hope there’s a set path here, and one that doesn’t involve death,” said Pitchwife. “I understand the appreciation for Tolkien’s use of horror, but really—” There was a gasp from a few feet back. “There are dead things—dead faces—in the water!” “Well, yeah,” said Fea, “it’s called the Dead Marshes for a reason.” “No, look,” said Lalaith. “The faces themselves…” Pitchwife traced a few precarious steps back. “Is that… Peter Jackson?” “A joke,” said their guide from far ahead. “You’ll also find Philippa Boyens and Fran Walsh a few graves over, as well as just about every WETA geek who worked on the films.” “It’s a very realistic joke,” muttered Pitchwife. “And creepy.” “So,” said Fea, “how much do I have to pay you to get you to keel over face-first into the water, Boro?” “A lot,” said Boromir. * * * “That,” said Inziladun, “is impressively obscure.” The hut had no identifying marks except for the stone lying nearby with smoke marks on its base. “I’m also quite fond of the Mewlips,” said the hobbit. “Best not to go down there alone; last person who went exploring down there never came back.” He shook his head sorrowfully. “Poor Mr. Sibley.” “Wait, what?” said Eönwë. The hobbit merely smiled. * * * “And this,” said the elf, “is Niggle’s Parish.” “The tree!” cried Nogrod. “Something’s wrong with it,” said autume. “I mean, unless Tolkien liked huge trees…” “Sir, this isn’t Hirilorn, is it?” said McCaber. “No,” said the elf. “It’s the Tree of Tales.” Shasta nodded. But it did not look like a healthy tree. Up, it stretched, up into the sky, until everything growing was masked by the grey clouds that covered the area. Nogrod picked up a few leaves from the ground—the only leaves from the tree that could be seen. They were brown, dry, and dead; and while they gave off a pleasant enough odor and crackled quite nicely in his hands, they were still dead and no living ones could be found. * * * “It is getting late,” said the mariner. “Let me show you your rooms so that you can prepare yourselves for the dinner.” And with that he led them down a pathway that turned into a hallway with thirteen doors set on one side. “If you continue down this hallway, a stairwell will lead you to the dining room. A bell will ring ten minutes before dinner is to be served. “Your room will be here, Pitchwife.” He motioned to a room more or less in the middle of the cluster. “Your luggage should be inside.” Pitchwife opened the door, expecting to see something very like a well-apportioned hotel room. Instead what greeted his eyes was a jumble of boxes and odd parts of furniture, so familiar to him that it was striking. It was his room from back home. Pitchwife took two steps back. “I have a bad feeling about this,” he said. __________________ Got corsets?