An Unexpected Vir(tu)al Party

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Party activity had slowed down in the course of time, as it does when friends feel free to come and go, or to sit in companionable silence and recollection. But now a special announcement was made by Estelyn:

"My dear Elves and Dwarves, Hobbits and Humans, Wizards, and Orcs, and Wraiths of all Peoples. May 1 is the Barrow-Downs' 20th birthday - it is 20 years old tomorrow!"

"Hurray! Hurray! Many Happy Returns!" the guests shouted, and they hammered joyously on the tables. Esty was doing splendidly. This was the sort of stuff they liked: short and obvious.

"I hope you are all enjoying yourselves as much as I am." Noises of trumpets and horns, pipes and flutes, and other musical instruments. In one corner of the ballroom some of the members, supposing Mod Estelyn to have finished (since she had plainly said all that was necessary) now got up an impromptu orchestra, and began a merry dance-tune.

But Esty had not finished. Seizing a horn from a youngster nearby, she blew three loud hoots. The noise subsided.

"I have called you together for a Purpose. Indeed for Three Purposes! First of all, to tell you that I am immensely fond of you all, and that twenty years is too short a time to live among such excellent and admirable wraiths. Secondly, to celebrate the Downs' birthday. Thirdly and finally, to this effect I wish for you to share your favourite poetry with us for the occasion. Whether you quote from the books we all love, or recite your own serious or humorous poems, or share a translation in another language, of the Ring poem, for example - your contributions are welcome! Those who know the use of special techniques to record their own voices reading a poem are welcome to post the links here, so we can hear you speak. And of course toasts to the Barrow Wight are in order, and any conversation is allowed as you please. I look forward to a wonderful celebration with all of you!

And though in the past, numerous members have announced that they were going, leaving now, I am staying!"

[Huinesoron]

"Twenty years?"

Huinesoron stirred from his corner, stepping out into the room.

"Twenty years... and here's me around for barely two. It suddenly feels like a very heavy history is hanging over me..."

He stopped, shaking his head, and smiled. "But if anything is hanging from these rafters, it's bunting. This is a festive occasion! And while I may not be the best in crowds (though put me in a riddling game and I will dive in wholeheartedly), I will join you all in raising a glass to the Downs and the Wight - and in sharing a little poetry."

Huinesoron shuffled through his pockets, studiously ignoring the amused looks he was getting, and after a few moments produced a scrap of paper. "I wrote this some years ago," he explained (or failed to explain). "I was practicing Sindarin at the time, and I... so it's a translation of the last four lines of Sam's song in the Tower. You know, 'Above all shadows rides the sun' and so forth?" He coughed, glanced down at the paper, then straightened his back and looked up.

Anor dhosta or-dhuaithoth
Ah elenath hilar
Ú-bêdithan "i galad veth
"Ah in elin 'wannar..."

hS

[Estelyn Telcontar]

The day had arrived, and with it the first poem; Estelyn smiled, rather wistfully - it was not only an appropriate tribute to the Professor's created language/s, it was a timely reminder that "...in the end the Shadow was only a small and passing thing: there was light and high beauty for ever beyond its reach." These difficult times, too, would pass. She cleared her throat, which had become rather husky over those thoughts, and climbed onto one of the tables to make an announcement:

"As we begin our celebrations, let us take a moment for the ritual of our times. I ask you to take the soap into your wet hands, face west, and recite with me:

Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky,
Seven for the Dwarf-lords in their halls of stone,
Nine for Mortal Men doomed to die,
One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne
In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie.
One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them,
One Ring to bring them all, and in the darkness bind them,
In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie."

The hall rang with the sound of many voices united as one, then a sound as if of many waterfalls, as hands were rinsed, then the reverent silence of drying them. Estelyn thought she had heard some voices speaking in other languages and hoped that the speakers would recite their poems individually so that all could hear them.

Since she was already on the table, she decided to propose the first toast of the birthday party: "Please raise your glasses, preferably filled with something you like, and toast the one person without whom our lives would have been much less interesting: The Professor!"

[Morthoron]

After yet another toast, the Dark Elf was feeling rather amused, or bemused as the case may be, for the Old Winyards was surprisingly potent, even for one of the Moriquendi. Elves do not get intoxicated as a rule, although Morthoron did recall a certain Silvan steward of Thranduil who was relieved of his duties for being dead drunk. "Sacked for too much sack," he chuckled to himself.

In any case, the Dark Elf was certainly more amenable to interaction with the odd admixture of personas proliferating in the hall; and given Lady Estelyn's request that all and sundry of the assemblage should share some token of esteem for some brief anniversary being celebrated herein (short, in terms of Elves, of course), Morthoron rose from the comforts of his fine leather Edwardian club chair. He politely cleared his throat to gain attention, cleared it again when some of the more roisterous imbibers in the back failed to yield the floor, and then began in a sonorous tone:

"Choices. We all have to make them at one time or another, of course, but some are more momentous than others. Take for instance, the sons of Eärendil the Mariner, who by the Grace of the Valar were given the irrevocable choice of which kindred they would remain, Elda or Adan. This then is The Soliloquoy of Elrond Peredhil...

An Elf or not an Elf...that is the question.
Whether 'tis nobler to be mortal and suffer
The twinges and hair loss of Mankind's fortune,
Or to take up Elfdom and limitless potential,
And by inference become immortal. An Elf -- to sleep no more --
Because Elves rarely sleep given their high metabolism.
But there is heartburn: a thousand years of eating lembas
Does not aid in my digestion. 'Tis not a bowel movement
One would wish on an enemy. And sheep -- sheep that yearn to dream --
Ai! I've lost count. For in that count of sheep no dreams may come
While snugly mortals coil 'neath comforters and nap without pause,
There's only insomnia that makes calamity of so long a life."

The Dark Elf, half-smirking, formally bowed and returned to his seat.

[Kath]

Having quietened down long enough to listen to the Dark Elf's humorous take on the life of Elrond after Esty's rousing toast, Kath was keen to get everyone joining in again. This called for something with a bit of a chorus that didn't take much time to learn. And so, she cast her mind back to The Hobbit, that wonderful book that had started her journey into Middle Earth, and found something that suited her aim.

"Alright, fellow 'Downers," she called out over the general merriment, "let's hear your best 'Ya Hey'!"

Fifteen birds in five fir trees,
their feathers were fanned in a fiery breeze!
what funny little birds, they had no wings!
Oh what shall we do with the funny little things?
Roast 'em alive, or stew them in a pot;
fry them, boil them and eat them hot?

Burn, burn tree and fern!
Shrivel and scorch! A fizzling torch
To light the night for our delight,
Ya hey!

Bake and toast 'em, fry and roast ’em!
till beards blaze, and eyes glaze;
till hair smells and skins crack,
fat melts, and bones black
in cinders lie
beneath the sky!
So dwarves shall die,
and light the night for our delight,
Ya hey!
Ya-harri-hey!
Ya hoy!

[Legate of Amon Lanc]

When the applause and the merriment after the last poem (or actually, sing-along) quieted down, the Wights began to look at each other expectantly. When nobody seemed eager to take the spotlight, Lommy and Legate got up from their seats.

"We have heard quite a few poems thus far - both by the Professor," Lommy raised her half-empty glass once again, "and by some of the creative spirits among us. We may not have a poem of our own," she added, "but there is a little creativity in there, too."

"As one Elven traveler once said," Legate continued, "it is fair to hear words of your own language from the lips of other wanderers in the world. But we would do something different this time: let you hear words of other languages from the lips of your fellow 'Downers. It is a piece of poetry you all know."

And with these words, they started reciting; first Lommy, then Legate, and taking turns after each stanza:

Kun kevät saa pyökin lehtimään ja virtaa mahla sen,
kun virralla valo kimmeltää, ja tuuli on luoteinen,
kun askel on kevyt, ja hengitys; sää vuorilla viileää;
palaa luokseni, palaa luokseni, sano: kaunis on maani tää!

Když jarem raší zahrada a roste obilí,
když květy jako lesklý sníh nám sady obílí,
když zem a vzduch se rozvoní deštěm se sluncem,
já zůstanu, já nepůjdu, vždyť já mám krásnou zem!

Kun kesä jo valtaa maailman ja viheriöi joka puu,
kun lehväkatoksi puhjeten uni oksien toteutuu,
kun metsän saleihin vehreisiin tuuli lännestä puhaltaa,
palaa luokseni, palaa luokseni, sano: maata ei parempaa!

Když slunce hřeje, jablka a hrušky vypéká,
když sláma zlátne, bělá klas a žeň už nečeká,
když kane med a zraje plod a hnědne ořeší,
já na slunci tu zůstanu, má zem je nejlepší!

[Thinlómien]

Kun talvi jo saapuu tappava, puut metsän maahan lyö
kun auringottoman päivän taas yö musta tähdetön syö;
kun kuoleman tuuli idästä tuo sateen viiltävän,
minä sinua etsin ja kutsun ja taas sinun luoksesi kiirehdän!

Když zima píseň umoří a padne černá tma,
zlomí se větev neplodná a skončí práce má,
vyhlížet budu, čekat budu, až mi přijdeš vstříc,
pak nelítostným deštěm spolu odejdeme pryč.

Me yhdessä matkaan lähdemme, tie länteen vie yhä vain,
a daleko snad najdem zem, kde srdce spočinou.

As the audience applauded politely, Lommy and Legate bowed, holding hands and laughing, with a slightly self-conscious flush on both their faces. After all, there was no getting around the fact that the poem they had just recited was a little too cheesy for either of their tastes.

"That is how it goes," Lommy said. "A fair song, if a tad melodramatic. In real life, differences between the forests of the north and the rolling hills and farmlands of the south aren't such a big deal."

"Easy for you to say, when we live in your forest land," Legate teased her good-naturedly.

"Well, *anyway*," Lommy said. "Now that I'm talking, I propose a toast. For all the wonderful people we've all met through this site - and no, I'm not just talking about Legate - imagine how much poorer all our lives would be without them. Cheers! Or, kippis!"

"Na zdraví!" said Legate, and clinked glasses with her.

Lommy smiled at him, then raised her glass and turned to the wights that were gathered around. She made sure to make eye contact with all her friends present, both those she kept in touch with regularly and those she only saw occasionally on the 'Downs or while browsing the book of faces. How lovely it was that they were all there!

[Mithadan]

Mithadan and his companions applauded. "Lovely tunes!" he said with enthusiasm. "Beautiful! What did you think?" He turned to a dubious looking creature, seated to his left.

"Not bad," answer Gravlox. "Very pretty indeed! but I rather liked that other one. Reminded me of my youth,

"Bake and toast 'em, fry and roast ’em!
till beards blaze, and eyes glaze;
till hair smells and skins crack,
fat melts, and bones black

"That's a bit more my style."

"It would be, my Uruk friend," retorted a figure dressed in a white, silk suit with a black tie. His hair was immaculately coiffed and his shoes shone from having been buffed until every scuff had been eliminated. He held a pad of yellow, lined paper in his hand and was scribbling frantically with his Mont Blanc pen. "You're an Orc, and can appreciate a nice bit of thievery. Straight out of The Hobbit, I believe. Let's see, copyright violation, treble damages, attorney's fees..."

Gravlox scowled and bared his yellowed fangs. "Can't you lighten up for once, Sueim?" he responded. "Enjoy yourself! Have a drink and a bit to eat!" The Orc drew a dagger and stabbed a cockroach that was sauntering by. It disappeared into his maw with a crunch. "Juicy!" he exclaimed.

"Well, if I recall, you can neither write poetry nor sing," Sueim replied. His cellantir rang, but he ignored it. He leaned forward toward the Uruk and emphasized his words with a flourish of his hands.

"I've never heard you sing," snarled Gravlox. "Your 'predecessor' maybe, but not you."

Sueim grinned. It was a truly horrifying sight. Loyers should not be allowed to smile. "He could entertain, couldn't he? Maybe, I should let my hair down and get into the swing of things. Even if it means letting Grrralph take over for a moment..."

Sueim stood, and gestured as he recited a quotation from Mr. Justice Brandeis. Abruptly, he was surrounded with a cloud of grey smoke that quickly changed into the darkest black. Then, with a flash, a new figure appeared where Sueim had been standing.

"Oh no," moaned Mithadan. "Call the insurance company..."

In Sueim's place stood an imposing, shrouded figure, 2.4 meters tall wearing hooded robes over full body armour consisting of chainmail (steel, black), a breast plate (steel, black), vambraces (steel, black), leather gloves (black) with steel studs (black), chain hose (black) and thigh high boots (red). A nearby group of Hobbits dropped their tankards and fled, screaming. Grrralph raised himself up to his full height and emitted a long drawn out wail which rose and fell like the cry of some dark and lonely creature. Then, to everyone's horror, he began to move back and forth. At first, he merely tapped his boots, but then he began to sway and, suddenly, caught up in the moment, he drew his pale blade and began spinning around with his arms outstretched. His thigh-high red boots struck sparks from the floor as he shifted into a dance.

The crowd scattered and took refuge under tables or pressed up against the walls to evade the spinning wrai… er, person. Then, he began to sing.

Daggers and maces,
and bows at ten paces.
Longswords and spears,
that lay foes on biers.
Arrows on strings,
and cold golden rings,
these are a few of my
favorite things!

Liver and spleen,
and kidneys between.
Muscle and tendon,
and blades with to rend them.
Lungs, hearts and hamstrings,
and eyeballs a-bouncing,
these are a few of my
favorite things!

Nonplussed, Mithadan watched as Grrralph swept about the room. "'Enjoy yourself'" he said to Gravlox. "Good thing he didn't have a drink! Why didn't you double dog dare him?"

Gravlox watched as the tip of Grrralph's sword separated a guest's waistcoat into two neat pieces, amazingly without drawing blood. "You've got to admit," the Uruk responded with a toothy grin. "He's got style."