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From the Tower Hills the sea can be seen, a soft shining where the green hills dip low and smooth along the horizon and the clouds come down in little frills to dance with the waves. Northward the bay comes in, a long hazy shine along which the boats drift white and distant into port among the white and distant towers of the Havens.
On these bright mornings at the turning edge of summer, Father sits in the wicker chair in the western face of the garden, blowing smoke rings toward the sea. Elfstan joins him, with his own pipe and a book on his knee, together in silence they watch the white birds and the white ships play together in the blue at the edge of the sky.
- - -
As the air sharpens and the leaves begin to burn with orange, Father spends his days in the garden and his evenings by the hearth. His back will not let him bend to touch the earth, he directs Elfstan and young Rosemary to move the thick soil and pour water among the thirsting leaves. In the cool gray dusk he settles in the armchair and tells stories, scenes of faraway places familiar now to me though I have never seen them. The light of wonder glows in the eyes of the children.
I wonder if they see the shadows passing in his face, the movements of his hands darting like birds. Frodo he speaks of with old loss, shadows deep and sad as the river turning slow around a bend. Mother’s name is spoken with a tighter pain, creases forming at the corners of his mouth. She we grieve together, taking the stories of her in like breaths of the sharp air and releasing them warmer, memories rising from our tongues like mist.
- - -
The house at Bag End is tucked up cozy against the autumn as it ever was. This year Rosemary and I walk the path to the green door through the drifts of unraked leaves. The windows are dark. There is no warmth here this fall. In the round cream-colored rooms of my childhood there is silence and dust. No wonder Father did not return here, no wonder he settled in the wicker chair in the garden as though his bones were cold. There are unswept cinders in the fireplace. Rosemary and I do not take off our coats. The tips of our gloves gather films of dust.
- - -
Father leaves in the deep of night. Autumn is turning quickly, the grass underfoot is bladed with silver. The pony is calm under his hands as horses always are, though the clouds of his breath shake and shudder as he heaves himself up. He sits tall in the saddle though his back must be paining him. His hands, worn and shaking, grasp mine. For a moment his eyes are bright in the dark, then he breathes and is again far away.
I hold the book, the memory of this last passing age, and watch his lantern turn the bends of the road until it is lost in the distance and the trees.
- - -
In the heart of autumn we go again to my Queen’s house on the Lake Evendim. This morning on the wide veranda my Lady sits watching sunrise on the lake. All is pale, the water painted in lavender and rose.
I lay the tea and scones on the small table. For long moments we are silent in the gathering light. At last, speaking softly, I tell her of my dream. She tips her head, gaze drifting far beyond the dim far shore. She too, perhaps, is looking into the bright shores of my dream, the tall figures stepping from the gleaming boat to the gleaming sand, the old man stepping down at last to meet in joyous embrace with a hazy young figure on the bright grass of always-summer. She smiles, her soft sad westward smile. She speaks of the gift of the elven-singers, to see that which is not there, which is far away or lost. Perhaps this dream was a gift of those far songs. Or perhaps it was merely a fancy of the heart to settle peacefully with loss. I shall not know or think to guess.
From the shores of Evendim the western sky is ringed with hills. Beyond them, where the white birds circle and laugh, the sky is misted with a pale brilliance. On this morning, the Lady Arwen and I watch the shining of the sea brighten with the rising day and think of fathers, think of the years and ages past we carry now only in our hearts. Above us the white birds move like ships, laughing.