The Company were grateful for a new distraction. They agreed that the white line could not be a gleam of the sun, nor ice; perhaps it might be a great flock of seagulls resting on the waves. ‘Well, I’ve been staring at it for half an hour,’ said Fortinbras, ‘and it’s getting bigger. I think it’s coming towards us.’ The punchkins strained their eyes on the silvery-white edge, and presently all agreed that, though the movement was less perceptible than that of a clock’s minute-hand, Fortinbras was right. More minutes went by, and the line became thicker. ‘I don’t think it’s birds,’ said Fortinbras, the wind ruffling his hair; ‘a big wave, maybe?’
Aldred looked down into the blue water. He saw a shoal of silver fish appear, then disappear as they all turned and descended. ‘Whenever he comes out, there’s a great big wave,’ he murmured.
‘What’s that?’ demanded Hodgekin with forced geniality. ‘Come on, Mr. Sherling, don’t mumble! Don’t you think it’s a wave?’
More minutes slowly passed, and it became clear that the appearance really was a wave, a prodigious wave, a truly enormous earth-shaken wave, the likes of which the punchkins had heard of only in legends such as the Downfall of Atalantis. Its white comb sparkled and glistened in the sun, its body was green, and it surged in towards the land with steady inexorable majesty. Onward it came, strangely peaceful, a rising wall of water that cut off the whole prospect of the sea beyond it: closing in: closing in. At last it swept into the bay.
Its height, as it reared up along and against the opposite cliffs, shedding vast slow curls and complicated shavings of white foam, could now be guessed at, but now also seemed to be changing and growing more rapidly. At the same time, as the wave rippled up towards the punchkins’ vantage-point, it seemed to slow down, and to thicken, and to push up more water ahead of itself. The deep voice of Lantros rose in pitch as the water-level was raised at the foot of the cliffs. As the water charged into higher fissures and holes, to be forced back by the suddenly-compressed air, there was a series of muffled explosions. Patches of sea-foam and floating weed were being carried up the greenish-blue slope, taking ages – that is, time measured in dozens of heartbeats – to reach the crest, where the punchkins saw the glinting shapes of fish, perhaps the same fish, amid the rolling tumbling froth. The gulls had seen them too. They were swooping down, wheeling and stooping above the wave-crest, now directly below, its brilliant line wavering back and forth, connecting this side to the opposite cliffs. Aldred glimpsed another silvery shape, a small square thing that was being carried on the crest of the wave. Quietly though it moved, all ears rang and popped with the mighty force of its passing; and following it came a down-sucking wind that bent the tree-trunks, roused and staggered the monsters and threatened to loosen the companions’ arms and fingers. Where the wave had passed the sea was far lower, where it had still to come the surface was higher still – in fact the whole sheet was shaping itself into a slant – a steep blue hill – an immense glittering spire, and trunk, and tree, and leaf-canopy of white spray, whose many spindrift-blossoms slowly sank and twinkled in the air; while belatedly to the punchkins’ ears came the great dull clap and roar of the wave’s impact at the head of the fiord. Nor yet was the spectacle finished. The cascade sank down on waters that now rebounded with all their accumulated force, surging down and upwards again in a long fierce lope. A second time they came rising towards where the punchkins sat, in no orderly rank now but a chaotic multitudinous swirling mass, opaque and glossy, whorling and dimpling and puckering, bulging and fountaining and reaching out with many white fingers and arms, higher than before, far higher, so high that –
Yes, here it came. The white foam was flooding into the river-cleft, pushing back the stream. Creamily, easily, upwards it poured. And now a tide was lapping over the brim of the cliff-edge. Sudden winds gusted about in wild directions, whipping it into extravagant shapes. A wide new stream came pouring from beyond the other side of the pine-trees, covering their roots, racing round and back to the river. The monsters were galloping off in alarm but the water was overtaking them. From the gulf there was a loud report, a curious puffing popping noise, and then a great rain of salt water fell all around, pricking the foam and lashing through the branches of the tree. The waters were still sinking back in the midst of the bay while continuing to rise at the edges. The trunk of the tree was now immersed in water to a depth of six feet.
‘Jump!’ shouted Fortinbras.
The companions sat astounded.
‘Jump!’ he cried again. ‘This is our chance! It’ll carry us over! Break off branches if you can’t swim!’
‘What?’ said Waltrot.
‘Jump! Do as I do!’
He leapt: he dived. His outstretched hands clove the hissing foam. In a few moments he reappeared, already many yards away. The water was carrying him rapidly towards the river.
The others understood. The water was still rising, but more gently. Soon it would start to flow back. They had only a few seconds’ grace. Tim’s face turned green with terror.
‘All right then,’ said Waltrot, ‘branches.’ Jumping up to stand, balancing on his own branch, he reached up with both hands and snapped off the branch above, which happened to be one of the dead ones. ‘Tim! Take it!’ He thrust the branch towards Tim, who took it hesitantly by the other end. ‘Don’t drop it, lad! Now, Mr. Sherling, one for you!’ A second branch, a smaller one, came poking down towards Aldred. He too stood up; he grabbed it and held it, losing his balance but drawing the branch towards him as he fell out of the tree.
Splash! The water was just as cold as might have been expected, but strangely light and tingling, almost alive like the sparkling wines of the South-hundred. The millions of tiny fizzing bubbles seemed to give him support as they surged around him, and the branch was a help too. His head emerged. He was being drawn along – the right way. Waltrot and Hodgekin had jumped immediately after him. Waltrot came alongside, swimming with strong strokes, and inquired:
‘All well, Mr. Sherling?’
‘Yes thanks,’ he found himself able to say; ‘but what about Tim?’
‘Oh shit,’ was the spluttering answer. Tim was still sitting in the tree. In his hunched pose, with in-turned feet and shoulders slumped, he looked the picture of helpless misery. Waltrot began to try to swim back to help him, but then, with a wailing cry, Tim dropped into the water.
Aldred paddled vigorously with his legs, knowing that he could help only himself. Sometimes he tilted under with the branch above him, but always he held on to it tightly with both arms: ‘I can do this,’ he thought. At short intervals, among the billows, he caught sight of Hodgekin ahead of him and Fortinbras crawling out on the far brink. The wind had steadied to a strong breeze, blowing consistently against his left cheek and temple. ‘I see,’ he thought: ‘the water, sinking down in the bay, is pulling the air down after it, even as the last strength of the wave still carries us in the other direction.’ There also seemed to be some other disturbance behind him.
The current was weaker. But his feet had touched the ground. And here was Fortinbras wading to meet him with an outstretched hand and a broad smile. But the smile swiftly turned to a look of alarm: the flood had reached its height and the back-flow was starting. Aldred splashed forward. The receding water, now waist-high, swirled round him and tugged at his legs with frightening strength, so that he almost toppled backward. Next moment, however, his good hand was grasped. Together Aldred and Fortinbras trudged and pulled themselves free of the clutch of the water. At some little distance Hodgekin was standing and Waltrot was sitting, staring across the waves with the same sombre expression. All four heard Tim’s drowning scream – choked, bubbling, extinguished. The whole mass of the flood was racing back, gathering itself into the cleft. Tim had managed to catch hold of the branch after all, but he was now beyond any possible help. One of the monsters had also been caught; it bellowed and gobbled as it thrashed and struggled against the rapids. Smoothly they bent over the edge. Tim’s head was below the surface. For an instant his arm waved in mute appeal. Then he was gone.
Faster and faster ran the water, with an odd effect of reversal, as if time itself were to run backwards and disappear. The monster went over the edge. The level sank down until, suddenly, there was the Lantros, flowing along in its gully as before. Only the dripping rocks, and the soaked and flattened grass, bore witness to what had just happened.
Fortinbras burst into tears. He walked toward the cliff. Sadly the others followed him. They looked across to the little pine-grove and the tree that had served them as a refuge. They stood carefully on the slippery edge and looked right over. The tears of Lantros were now lit up by the afternoon sun, and the sound of the waterfall was like a deep lament. There was nothing to be seen of Tim, nor of the drowned monster. ‘Well,’ said Fortinbras, ‘he won’t be seen up Cotteridge way. Poor little Peony. She’s a nice girl.’ The words were inadequate. Aldred wished that Erum or some other priest of the Temple were there.
And so the travellers set off again, bereft and desolate, on the next stage of their journey. They walked slowly eastward. Thought the fox had left them, none felt any doubt as to the right course. There was a very faint path, a slightly silvery line through the long grass, and this they followed. It led them from the river and along the side of a swelling down. The hillside was sprinkled with many small golden-white flowers, and there were a few galloping, long-legged sheep with silver-grey fleeces. Exhausted and full of grief as the travellers were, they felt safe: it was somehow evident that the monsters did not cross the river and there were none on this side. Once Aldred spoke:
‘Are you blaming yourself, Fortinbras?’
‘I brought him here, didn’t I?’ was the answer. ‘And he saved my life.’
Aldred could think of no reply to this. The reduced Company walked on over hill and dale, through the hours of afternoon, until the gloaming deepened and the path could no longer be seen. The early autumn stars were bright and close. Forgil, the pole-star, burned high and clear, with the plough swinging away; and the half-moon was golden, waxing towards the full. The punchkins lay down to rest their weary legs and to sleep briefly in the cold night. The wind sighed about them as they slept, and no dreams came to them, unless it might be the sound of distant piping, like the music of a recorder, which seemed plaintively to remind them, in the moments between sleeping and waking, of a faithful servant and comrade.
Blanketless, they all woke up early in the whispering expectant darkness of two hours before dawn. They shivered, yawned and stretched out their arms, and knew their thirst, and felt their faintness and the grim ache of hunger in their bellies. There was little need for speech; they set off as soon as they could make out the path. Their mood – at least Aldred’s mood – was more resigned than anxious or despairing, with even an element of trust. The purpose that had animated them throughout their journey, though definite, had always been vague in terms of its end: its goal obscure, its accomplishment quite unimaginable. And now it seemed vaguer than ever, yet elusively present: faded into the ground or dissolved into the morning air, dispersed among the faint bleats of the sheep, the twittering of larks or the intermittent piping that still seemed, as in a half-dream, to touch their ears.
Presently, around mid-morning, there came a moment of clarity. The punchkins halted and listened.
‘I thought that was Tim,’ said Hodgekin. ‘It’s not. There’s someone playing a tune up there.’
‘Maybe he’ll give us something to eat,’ said Waltrot with an expression of pain.
Thick woods now rose up between them and the sea, and the hills on their right were tree-covered also; but still a broad fairway stretched itself uphill. The hill rose up more and more steeply. Later the punchkins saw a single tree that stood by itself on the hilltop. Weakly and wearily they struggled up to it, and before noon they stood beneath its branches. These were large, fruitless but laden with broad leaves untouched by autumn, many shady green leaves with silver undersides. A clear spring bubbled up among the tree-roots. The punchkins drank, then sat down to rest with their backs against the trunk. The high root-limbs supported them like comfortable chair-backs, and the bark was smooth, and the air was warm…
And all at once the piping was close; the shadows had moved, and there in the dappled shade of the tree was a young man. He sat cross-legged upon the flowery turf, playing on his pipe, running through the last few notes of a long melody.
He ceased, and laid his instrument in his lap. The companions beamed at him like little children.
‘That was beautiful,’ they said. ‘Play again!’
‘I will,’ said the young man; and again he played, and while they listened the burden of their sorrow was lightened. His slender fingers danced over the stops of his instrument, which was beautifully turned and carved of some pale-golden wood. His twinkling eyes glanced from one to another of his hearers. A second time he ended, and they all clapped.
‘Thank you!’ said he. ‘Playing alone, or playing to the earth and the woods and the sky, is well enough; but an audience is welcome at last.’
‘No,’ said they: ‘thank you!’
‘Never before have I played for mortals’ pleasure, though many Men and Dwarves dwell in this land.’
‘Then, good sir, we are greatly honoured,’ said Aldred, feeling his tongue awaken, almost of itself, to an older manner of speech: easy, formal, courteous. ‘But lest you should misconceive us, I hasten to declare at once that we are neither Men nor Dwarves but Little Folk, Punchkins of Punchkinland that lies many leagues north of here. Never before have any of our folk journeyed in this land, for we are uncouth and too much occupied with our own affairs. Pray tell us: what is its name?’
The young man stood and bowed; the Punchkins, more clumsily, also rose to their feet. ‘This is Enaderth,’ he said, ‘and you are welcome. But you seem to be in sad plight?’
‘Truly,’ answered Aldred. ‘Aldred Sherling is my name, and these are the brethren Hrothgar and Fortinbras Dyer, and this is Waltrot Hardedge, a worthy punchkin in our service. One other companion we had, but he was drowned by a strange wave that came yesterday morning; and we are grieving for him. And we have lost all our possessions. And we are very hungry.’
‘Then take this,’ said the other. From a light pack that hung over his shoulder he took out a square green parcel. He broke the leaf-wrapping and handed it to Waltrot. Hunger-sharpened nostrils caught a sweet, fresh-baked smell. ‘Let us not stand on ceremony as you eat,’ said the Elf, suiting his action to the words. ‘I am Findir. Often, ere the last Age of Midyard ended, did I walk in your own land; but now my people have withdrawn inside the boundaries of this our last Kingdom, and perhaps more than yourselves do we turn our faces inward. You at least have come to me! But, friends, why do you not satisfy your hunger?’
The Punchkins were looking at the brown wheaten cakes that they held in their hands. ‘Can this,’ asked Fortinbras in awe, ‘be –’
‘Elvish bread? What else? Eat, I pray you!’
The Punchkins slowly ate one small loaf each; then Waltrot wrapped up the remainder as best he might, and handed it back to their host.
‘Now tell me,’ said Findir, ‘whither you journey in this land, and what your errand is; and I will help you, if I may.’
‘We journey in search of her who is called Fuindis,’ Fortinbras answered: ‘the Witch of the South – if it so may be that –’
‘The Gulwen?’ interrupted Findir, startled into discourtesy.
‘I believe so,’ said Fortinbras. ‘Is she not named Fuindis among you?’
‘That is her name, but we speak it as seldom as we may! We honour her, but we also fear her greatly. She is an Elvish lady, one of the great ones of our own ancient race, yet she has become unlike us, more deeply estranged than any of our kindred has ever been. Since I see that you are in earnest I will not ask you why you seek her; but are you sure of your errand? It needs to be worth her while, for she is impatient and very dangerous!’
‘We believe that it is,’ said Fortinbras. ‘Will you guide us toward her, or at least point us in the right direction?’
‘Your feet are already on the right path. And you have achieved much in coming thus far. The Little Folk, as I recall, are adept at concealing themselves.’
‘Not more than the Elves, surely,’ said Hodgekin. ‘May we begone?’
‘Yes,’ said Findir thoughtfully. ‘Yes: I will guide you. Strange things are afoot.’
They followed him down the other side of the green hill. At first they walked along in silence, enjoying the gifts of his presence: the quickness of sense, the enhanced awareness of the beauty of the land, the partial escape into an older, less timebound reality. But at length they began to talk and laugh once more, although Fortinbras still walked silently in the rear.
‘I can imagine, Findir,’ said Aldred, ‘that for the Immortal Folk, long seasons of solitude are natural and desired; and to say even as much, is to presume greatly on our good fortune in meeting you; yet do I not perceive – may I not humbly inquire – if there is some likeness of purpose, some community between you and us?’
Findir laughed kindly, but said no word.
‘Is there a particular reason for your presence here also? What things are afoot?’
Still the tall Elf walked along at his side, his light shoes leaving no prints on the grass. Aldred was abashed.
‘Forgive me, then, for prying,’ he said. ‘I meant no disrespect.’
‘Nay,’ was the quiet answer. ‘Your mind is inquisitive, sharply honed to inquiry: doubtless by need. But such thoughts were stirring within my own heart also. I will answer your questions, but first tell me, if you will, of your going-forth and your journey hither; still setting aside the matter of your errand.’
So Aldred and Hodgekin, with some amplification from Waltrot, told the tale of their journey.
‘The magical fox, ah yes, we have seen him, and I have wondered about him too. It is strange that he now follows your friend so tamely.’
‘Eh? What?’ they cried. There was the fox again, trotting along behind Fortinbras as meekly as a spaniel.
‘How did you see him?’ demanded Fortinbras.
‘I heard him. Make him welcome. He is one of your fellowship.’
Aldred described the monsters, the wave and the latest stage of the quest. He was aware of being scrutinised and considered. Every now and then he looked up to meet the gaze of the calm grey eyes. For the first time he noticed the grey bow and the quiver of arrows that Findir also carried on his back.
‘Thank you, Aldred,’ said the Elf. ‘Now then, as to my own presence here, and what I have seen: I will tell you, but I am not willing to discuss their meaning. I do not know what things are afoot. It seems very likely that your arrival here is a part of them. I guess, and so may you guess; but respecting the designs of the Powers, we will agree to keep our thoughts and our guesses to ourselves.’
‘Willingly,’ said Aldred, and all the others assented.
‘Know, then, that I come of the people of Mithlaid, who owned Quendil the master of Onduial as their lord. When he and his household departed, I was one of those who remained in Onduial with his son Elenhir. Before the confusion that befell that household, I was one of the first who felt the stirrings of new Power, here in the far South-west. With Elenhir I left to discover that Power, and passed through this land, and so journeyed down to the mouths of Belechel; and I shared in his wonder and gladness when we found Circhil and the Elves of the Eastern Mountains, who had been drawn southward to what they did not know, even as ourselves, and yourselves also. Then Circhil and Elenhir founded Metimal, the Lasthaven of the Elves of Midyard; and Elenhir ruled us, with Malinde his queen, while – which was a new thing for us, and a great wonder – our numbers began to increase. I myself wedded a fair maiden of Circhil’s folk: two sons she has borne me and two daughters also. And now they all dwell in the household of Queen Maewiel.’
‘Was that the Queen,’ asked Aldred as a memory stirred within him, ‘who took a Mortal for a husband? Did she not ride to seek him in the West, below the Mountains of Tingrod, and fly off with him in the forms of gull and raven? And his name…’
‘King Athelstan in his name, and now he shares with her the rule of our City, but dwells principally in his own city of Ost-en-Aderthad, where Dwarves and Men live together in peace; and with him she takes counsel. For King Elenhir and Queen Malinde, her father and mother, lately perceiving the darkness of the North and the menace of the Worm, had no heart for further wars and sorrows. To them, bethink you, the struggles of the war against Sorgrim, with the loss of so many lives, and the departure of Quendil, are fresh new griefs, new as yesteryear. So Circhil built a ship for them, and they in their turn sailed away to the East, leaving their daughter to become Queen. And I have heard that she dared to seek counsel of the Gulwen, as perhaps yourselves may also dare; and it was by the advice of that Witch that Maewiel went to seek out a mortal for a husband. And though many murmured at this marriage, it seems to have turned out well, and to be a sign of a great final reconciliation of all the kindreds. Ost-en-Aderthad is not a fair city, with its strange citadel-tower that Men call Bridburg, yet peace and mirth are to be found there, and many children…
‘Yet now we are all menaced by evil once again. And how shall we ever be able to resist it, if we continually seclude ourselves and shut our ears to the rumours of the land? Such are the questions that have begun to haunt me like the spies from Thandor who have begun to try to penetrate our borders. I know that Maewiel and Athelstan are anxious likewise. It is theirs to consider war, invasion, counter-attack, to consult with Dwarves, to count weapons and warriors, and to deal with the spies according to their policy. And it is mine to roam around the borders, to watch the invaders, to spy upon the spies, and also to test the pulse of the land: to play my pipe and to hear the echo that returns from the heart of the earth. For there is more at stake than the loss of our last refuge and the final extinguishing of our folk…
‘What things are afoot? Listen well, and question me not. More than two months ago I was down by the coast, among the trees of Erynvorn. Piping I walked by the light of a full moon. I charmed the fierce creatures, and they slept; I played among the pine-trees, and their sap stirred, and their cones spread and gaped as if some ancient memory was being roused; I played on the cliff, and Lantros heard me in the distance, and the waterfall quivered a little; I played to the waves, and they shivered; yet none of these answers could I interpret. And then I stood alone, discouraged and still, while the moon went down. At last I raised my pipe once more, and played a soft note that seemed to traverse the vault of heaven and to alight on the horizon. And there I saw a faint silver line. It was just such another wave as the one we have lately beheld, the one that delivered you. It was the first and lesser wave; there was a kind of question in it, whereas the second one seemed like a triumphant answer. It did not come in response to my call, any more than the second one came in response to your plight; yet a gossamer-thread of purpose had linked it to me. Slowly it came, swelling like silver fleece in the moonlight, urgent yet calm. It passed me, and rolled up to the head of the bay, and burst with a slow sound, and slowly flattened itself to roll back again.
‘Now tell me one last time: are you all resolved to continue on your quest?’
Findir had spoken at much greater length than is here recorded. He had also left gaps, long silent pauses in his discourse. While the Punchkins walked along, enthralled by his words, the day had drawn to its end. They found themselves on the edge of a thick and dusky wood. Findir gave each one of them a searching look. ‘Yes,’ they answered.
‘All is not well between you: I see that you have your own shadows of dissension. Never mind. Your way lies yonder, through the woods and down into Nan Thurin, the secret valley where the Witch has her abode. Caras Gulwen in the name of that grim house. Thither the Elves have never yet gone, save some few maidens whom she takes into her service, and so I do not know how many miles you have still to go; but here I bid you farewell.’
The Company looked up at him in distress. They had not expected his guidance to be broken off so suddenly. ‘Shall we go off now?’ faltered Fortinbras. ‘Into the shadows of the dark trees?’
‘Is not the Darkness what you seek?’ The merry voice was stern. ‘Are the shadows worse than those which haunt you already? Maybe the odds of your finding Caras Gulwen are better in the night-time.’
‘Very well,’ replied Fortinbras with a sigh. ‘Many thanks we owe you; and I hope that at some time we shall get a chance to repay you for your good help.’
‘And so do I,’ said Findir. ‘Come, cheer up! Take the rest of the bread, and halt for a little while before you venture in,’
The Punchkins accepted the second meal with heartfelt thanks. Then with a wave of his hand the Elf strode away. They listened for the sound of his pipe, but it did not come. The cold wind soughed among the branches of the gloomy oaks and pines and cypresses. The companions sat down for a while, as he had advised them, and ate without talking.
‘Well, straight forward then?’ said Hodgekin.
‘Right,’ agreed Fortinbras. ‘On the march.’
They advanced into the shadows of the trees. The moon was up, giving light to see by, but the ground was uneven, prickly and brambly; the companions had to make their way forward with slow care. The woods closed in behind them. They went on groping forward for an hour or more.
‘Ouch,’ said Waltrot, treading on a thorn.
‘This light’s getting in my eyes,’ said Aldred.
‘Is that grey – is that grey a space, just ahead?’
One by one they stumbled out into a grassy place: a wide glade, full of the dismal grey light. On the other side there was a high black hedge with the branches of huge trees bending over it. A picket-gate was set in the middle of the hedge. It was a little taller than the Punchkins, and it glowed with a faint radiance of its own.
‘Oh dear me,’ said Fortinbras.
‘I don’t reckon that gate’s always to be found there,’ remarked Waltrot as they advanced towards it. ‘I reckon we’re in luck’s way.’
‘Yes,’ murmured Fortinbras. ‘Some new gate and garden-hedge.’