The Lord of the House as by John R.R. Tolkien

The road went on and on, winding through the forest like a giant serpent. Most of it lay in deep shadow under the old trees, but here and there sunlight sprinkled through the foliage, painting the ground in ever-shifting, brilliant patterns. Tiny specks of dust and pollen, like thin smoke, outlined the sunbeams and made them look like solid pillars supporting the canopy. The air was dense with scents of vegetation and decay. There was no sound, save a faint buzzing of insects.

The young man walking briskly along the road had set forth from the Great Plains one week earlier. Travelling through the Cloudy Mountains, he had reached the forest of Norien two days ago. Being a ranger, a descendant of the great Numerians, he had once taken an oath to protect the land, from great perils of which lesser men were hardly aware. For these were dark times, and the shadows of old were once again growing strong. Nameless, evil things, older than the world itself, were roaming the woods at night, and joy seemed to be fading from the world.

The first few nights he had slept fitfully under the stars, always alert, prepared to defend himself. As he ventured deeper into Norien, he no longer dared to rest in the open. He had not slept at all for two nights, and his strength was waning fast. He needed to find a safe place to sleep before dark.

As he reached the top of a low crest crowned with old willows, he froze. There was a sound! He held his breath, listening. There was no doubt; somewhere nearby, someone was chopping wood! The young ranger hurried on, a new hope kindling in his weary heart.

Just past the next turn he entered a wide clearing. A path led from the road onto the top of a low hill, where it ended before a small, sloping door. The door seemed to lead right into the hill itself. A man was chopping firewood just outside the doorway. He was absorbed by the work, and didn't look up. The young ranger kept his distance, inspecting the place carefully. As he stood there watching, he gradually noticed windows, chimneys and more doorways scattered throughout the scenery, seemingly at random. The hill, he realized, was a house. A house underground! This must be the dwelling of Silverhorn, the great sorcerer. A powerful ally, if he was willing!

He approached slowly, raising his hands in a token of friendship. He was about to speak when the man suddenly looked sternly at him:

'Stay where you are, stranger, and state your name!'

He stopped, his hands still raised. 'I am Agnar, son of Magnar the Numerian. I seek Silverhorn, the sorcerer of the North. Maybe you know where I can find him?'

'Maybe I do and maybe I don't', the man replied, 'What do you want with him?'

'That is a matter between the sorcerer and myself', Agnar said. 'However…'

The man, still holding his axe firmly with both hands, eyed him sceptically. 'Speak!', he said.

Agnar made a little bow and said: 'Night is soon upon us, and I have no place to dwell. I don't need much; a simple blanket will do. I would be most greatful if I could have the solid walls of your house between the dark forest and myself tonight. Evil things are afoot.'

'Evil things indeed', the man said, lowering his axe a few inches. 'Surely, the Numerians are our allies and friends, and maybe our last hope these days, as well. It lifts my heart to hear spoken the name of Magnar. Can you prove your kinship to him?'

Agnar drew his knife in reply, holding it up high before him. The blade was gleaming redly in the waning sunlight. 'This is Mora, the sacred blade of Gwarvar, greatest of the Numerians. I swear to it that I speak the truth!'

The other man nodded, putting the axe in his belt. 'I never thought I would see the knife of Gwarvar with my own eyes', he said, reaching out his hand. 'I am Slavin, son of Servin. Welcome to Hornhall'. They shook hands, and Slavin smiled shyly. 'I hope you will forgive my manners. As you said: these are evil times, and trust is not easily granted. I would be honored, however, to have a kinsman of Magnar as my guest. Unfortunately, the decision is not mine to be made. You must lay your request before my father'.

Through the small doorway they entered a large, circular room. There was a fireplace in the middle of the floor, where three rabbits were roasting in a large pan. An elderly man was raking the coals with an iron. He looked curiously at the visitor for a moment, then greeted him with a deep bow.

'I am Servin, son of Scolarin', he said. 'What can I do for you?'.

Agnar introduced himself, and told Servin what he had told Slavin.

Servin smiled. 'These are good news indeed', he said, raking the coals some more. 'But the signs are muddled, and I cannot see what lay before us'. He pointed to a door behind him and said: 'Please, enter the Chamber of Knowledge, and speak to my father. He is a man of great wisdom'.

The Chamber of Knowledge was round as well, though much larger than the room Agnar had just left. The walls were covered with old books. Most of the books, in turn, were covered with a thick layer of dust and cobweb. An old man sat behind a large table, reading a book with silvery, leaf-thin pages. The letters seemed to be glowing between his bony fingers.

'I know who you are and what you seek', the man said, looking at Agnar. 'My name is Scolarin, son of Weedor'. He stared before him for a long while, appearantly lost in thoughts. Then he smiled and looked at Agnar again. 'My knowledge is deep and wide, but it is not enough. I cannot help you. You must seek counsel by someone else; someone who has even greater wisdom, although not from books. This man is a great dreamer, receiving his visions through the sacred smoke of Canab. Enter the door before you, and speak your will'.

Agnar opened another door, entering a room in almost complete darkness. As he stood there, waiting for his eyes to adapt to the faint light, he noticed a strange, heady scent he did not recognize.

Gradually he made out a dim figure sitting on a pile of pillows, in front of a large curtain. It was a very old man; bald, but with a long, grey beard. He was smoking a long pipe, gazing unfocused into the air. Agnar could see now that the air was thick with smoke. He bowed, introduced himself, and once again presented his request. The old man continued smoking for a while, then looked at Agnar and coughed sorely:

'I am known as Weedor the Dreamer, son of Bedrid the Seer', he said. He smoked some more, smiling faintly. 'The man you seek is nigh', he said, 'When you find him, you will get many answers, but there will be new riddles as well.' Then he started singing with a hoarse voice. The tune was strange and floating, and Agnar could hardly make out the words:

Daring the forest of Norien
the seven ladies set forth;
guided by stars, braver than men
they went to the lands in the north.
They called out our names through the sacred smoke,
only to dwindle away.
Of longing and hope that vision spoke,
for our ladies that went astray.

Agnar kneeled before Weedor. 'What should I do?', he asked.

Weedor coughed again. 'Behind that curtain is a stairway', he said, pointing over his shoulder. 'At the bottom of the stairs you will meet someone who can help you'.

Reluctantly Agnar followed Weedor's instructions, wondering if he could trust any of these men. But he had no choice; he could no longer risk sleeping outdoors.

The stairs were even darker than the room he had left, and he had to feel his foothold carefully for each step. He finally reached a flat stone floor, and saw a faint strip of light before him. It was another curtain, light shining through a small gap in the middle. He stepped through, entering a large hall with a high ceiling held up by heavy pillars of stone. There were torches on the walls, shining softly. At the far end of the hall there was a large bed in which lay an old man, appearantly asleep. As Agnar approached the bed, the old man opened his eyes. Agnar halted. The man's eyes were blazing, like burning steel, and they looked right into Agnar's soul. Agnar felt as he was teared open, and that nothing could be hidden from this fiery gaze. Then the old man relaxed, his face softening into a broad, friendly smile.

'My name is Bedrid', he whispered, 'son of Cradlin'. He pushed himself up a bit in the bed, resting on his albows. Stretching towards Agnar he spoke in a creaky voice: 'Your destiny will be fulfilled soon, for good or for worse. You must be prepared!'

Before Agnar could answer, he noticed a smaller bed beside the big one. There was an old man laying in that bed, too. He was very wrinkled and very small, and he too was smiling.

'Yes, I am Cradlin', he said. 'And I have a question for you. It is of great importance that you consider it carefully. Please take your time'. He blinked trustfully towards Agnar.

'Yes… yes, of course', Agnar said, 'What do you want to know?'

'Well', Cradlin said, 'what we want to know is this: have you seen our wives?'

Agnar was taken aback. 'Excuse me?'

'Our wives!' Cradlin waved his hands eagerly, drawing big circles in the air. 'Have you seen them?'

'Er… no, I have not. I'm sorry'.

'Oh'. Cradlin seemed disappointed. 'Well, I guess you just have to go on, then'. He pointed to a door behind the two beds.

Agnar entered a chamber filled with soft light. On a chair, facing him, sat Silverhorn, the sorcerer of the North. He was very old, small set, with long silvery hair and beard. Though Agnar had never seen him before, he instantly knew it was him. Silverhorn smiled and pointed to a chair.

'Please', he said. 'Be seated'.

Suddenly the room was filled with beautiful music and precious heirlooms of old, and food appeared on a table, though no servants could be seen. A large bed with soft pillows was standing by the wall. On it were laid out garments of northern fashion, beautifully wowen and ornamented with silver threads.

'Please, eat and rest', Silverhorn said. 'Tonight no evil can reach you. Free your mind from your heavy burden, and be merry. Tomorrow we shall speak of many things. Maybe you will find that there is still hope'.

As Agnar ate the food, which tasted deliciously, he sensed a great calmness settling in his weary mind. He knew he was were he was destined to be. Finally, he was about to fulfill his purpose in this great turn of events.

abre © 2008