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The earth is sick. She knows it in her bones, which know the bones of the earth.
This has ever been a land of echoes, of mournful cries when the wind blows. On all sides the hills rise, and beyond them the mountains, and so they are walled in. This is the land that was given to them. (Once they are certain no spies of the Admirable are about, some add: but not the land that was offered, when they first swore loyalty to the Mighty One in the north.) Still it is the land in which she was born.
A harsh land always, and sad, amidst the rain and the mists, but these days it grows even more desolate. The thralls, who lived in this country before, seem to know it too. They have ever fled south when they could, casting aside their chains, but these days they do so in ever greater numbers, with ever greater desperation. There are rumours of great hosts gathering in the south and west, but these tidings are beyond her.
Sometimes faintest tremors shake the earth. Most do not notice, but she does. ‘Poor earth,’ she says, laying the palm of her hand on the ground, ‘old earth, that art so weary.’ But there is no soothing this dying thing.
*
The man comes at night: a night of rain and high winds. She is alone in her house, for her daughter and good-son have left with their children, to visit his kin awhile. Alone but not afraid, for she is known widely for her craft, and her kind are too useful to be harmed. At her feet her old dog dozes, snoring softly and whining sometimes in its throat, and the fire dims to embers. The wind howls, and rain lashes the walls and roof. She is drifting into sleep too, should go to bed; and as she drifts is very aware of the thin shell that is her house, of the turmoil of air and water above, and beneath her a sea of earth - not steady but restive and shifting and angry and in pain, and she just a little thing clinging…
The knocking awakens her. She startles, drawing her shawl about her, hears the sound of rain drumming heavily on the roof, thinks perhaps she dreamt it. But when for a second it abates, she hears the knocking again.
She is used to such calls. She rises, opens her door. A blast of cold, damp air blows past her. What she does not expect is this man whom she has never met before, wrapped in a drenched cloak.
‘They said you were a healer,’ he tells her. ‘That you could set bones.’ There is the faintest trace of an accent in his voice. But, foreigner or not, she has never turned away someone who was in need of help. Her body taught her that long ago. He stumbles inside; she leads him to the hearth. He sets down his pack, as drenched with rain as the rest of him.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Broken wrist, I believe.’
‘Let me see.’
He moves aside his sodden cloak. Beneath it is a small harp, which he is cradling beneath his right arm, and now sets down. ‘Better my wrist than this,’ he says ruefully. Then, gingerly, he draws up his sleeve with his left hand. The right wrist is indeed swollen, crooked, a nasty bruise is forming.
‘Can you move your fingers still?’
‘A little.’ He shows her.
‘Enough.’ She has seen the swiftly repressed wince, the clenching of his jaw. He is young, she realises, hardly more than a boy, slender and dark-haired. Now she takes his wrist in her own hands, very gently. There is an art to this: coaxing the flesh to tell one what it knows of the bones beneath, listening with one’s fingertips. ‘How did this happen?’
‘I was walking downhill, in the dark and rain. I slipped, and tried to break my fall. It was foolish of me.’
She lets go of his wrist. ‘The break is not too bad. There is one fragment that must be moved, but it could have been worse. Now do not move.’ Rising, she goes to the other end of the room, takes two bottles, a cup, some cloth strips and reeds. Returning to the boy, she fills the cup with fermented milk, and hands it to him. ‘Drink.’ It will strengthen him. As for the other bottle, it contains strong spirits. She pours a little from it into her own mouth, does not swallow.
She crouches by his side, though her old knees protest. Taking his wrist again, she blows the spirits over the swelling. Cold, to draw out the heat and the pain. Then, working swiftly, listening to the voice over her shoulder that says, this heals and this does not, she brings together the broken splinters of bone. The fragment she mentioned gives her a little trouble, but only a little. Little thing, do not be angry. Do not worry the flesh that houses you, but return to the bones from which you come. Once she is done she puts together a splint from the cloth and the reeds.
‘Better now?’
‘Much better.’
He has been watching her work in rapt silence; now he raises his eyes to her, and smiles - a lovely, boyish smile that lights up his features.
‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘Truly. Is there aught I could do to thank you?’
‘No. Not for bone-setting. That only brings ill luck. The splint you must keep for a month - no harp-playing for you. Be careful all the while, but after that you must use your hand, or risk having it grow stiff.’
She rises slowly from her crouch, goes to where she keeps an earthen basin and a little soap, washes her hands carefully. The copper bracelets she wears, and the blue rings they have left about her wrists, are one barrier against such ill will as might travel from an ailing body to that of the healer; but the cleansing is another protection, which she never forgoes.
She hears him rise.
‘Should I leave, then?’
‘In this storm?’ She turns to him, shakes her head. ‘No. Sit down.’
First, she fetches some food - some dumplings given to her by a neighbour, as thanks for an unguent, more fermented milk to fill his cup. Then she puts together a small pallet in front of the fire, from what little straw and blankets she has. Adds a little wood to the fire.
‘Thank you,’ says the boy. He has drained his cup, and is eating the dumplings with the haste of someone who has known hunger in the past. Left-handed, of course, but although he balances the earthen bowl carefully on his knees, he seems unhampered; perhaps he is one of those who favour their left hand, or else is uncommonly deft. He is a comely lad, she notices, with finely drawn features, yet there is something odd about him. Now that some colour has returned to his cheeks and lips, she finds he looks younger than before - boyish, even. She cannot place his age. She thinks of her youngest son, who might be of an age with him.
‘I have some herbs in my pack,’ he says. ‘I don’t have half your learning, but - a little. If I can’t repay you for the healing, might I not give some to you at least?’
‘No,’ she says. ‘I told you: it brings ill luck. If you give me your herbs I must give you something in exchange.’
‘Still I thank you.’ His eyes stray towards his harp, leaning against the stool, and he adds ruefully: ‘I wish I could play for you, but…’
‘But you must rest, I said.’
‘I could almost forget I was injured.’ He looks down at his wrist, turns the hand just a little. ‘You have a gift, truly.’ He hesitates, then glances up at her. ‘Might you teach me some of it?’
This she does not expect. She retrieves the bottle of spirits, pours herself some more, then a little for him, which he drinks. They sit together by the fire.
‘The use of herbs, perhaps. But bone-setting…,’ she tells himself. ‘Teaching isn’t always enough. You have to be of the right line.’
‘As you are?’
‘Aye.’ She raises her chin. ‘On my mother’s side, in unbroken line since long before we crossed the mountains, and the mountains before that, the blue and the misty. In those days we rode far and wide in the unfenced lands, or so our songs say. Injuries were frequent, so we learned to treat them, and the knowledge has passed down with our blood. We learned to hold the bones together.’ She shows him her hands, the instruments of her art: the palm strong and well-knitted, the ten fingers, so clever once they are together. ‘That is my title: one who holds.’
‘Were you taught as a child?’
‘No,’ she says. ‘I heard the calling when I was young, but I did not listen. But then, after I had my children, I grew sick. Fevers, and pains in my joints. I lay abed for days. That was because I had refused the call. So I learned, and I did the rites with the elders. Since then illness has not troubled me, except when someone needed my help and did not come to me. Do you think you might have been called also?’
‘I’m not sure. My brother was, I think - kingly are his hands.’ He smiles again - a distant smile, but fond. Then he leans forward, studies her face. ‘Might you tell me more of your lineage, before I leave? Of your travels?’
‘My people’s travels. In truth, there are better people to ask, if you would learn such tales. Is that why you are here?’ She gestures towards his pack, his harp. ‘What brings a foreigner to the land of echoes?’
A silence.
The boy tips his face backwards, looks at the ceiling awhile, from which herbs and drying meat hang; stretches his feet, in their well-worn boots, towards the fire. The dog, who has gone while she did her healing, returns to sit beside them.
He takes another sip of the spirits. Yet when he looks at her, his gaze is very clear, and steady, and he seems older. Older and sadder.
‘One who holds, you said. But even you must have encountered things that had - grown too far apart. Things torn asunder, beyond mending.’ And he spreads his own hands apart, the broken and the whole, a helpless gesture.
‘What do you mean by that?’ she asks.
‘That you must leave.’ His voice is very soft.
‘This house?’ She knows already that this is not what he means.
‘This land.’
‘Because of the war?’ she scoffs. ‘We have weathered worse.’ Always the Mighty One in the north calls for her people’s sons, to stand in his armies. But this is the price to be paid. ‘And this land is ours now. It was given to Lorgan, our chief, and my kin have ever held it after.’
‘Lorgan?’
‘My grandfather. I am only the youngest child of his youngest child, but he was the greatest among us.’
A queer look comes into his eyes. ‘I’ve heard that name before. Lorgan. But no, I do not mean the war. Something worse.’
‘You think I don’t know about that too?’
The dog pricks his ear at the sharpness of her tones. The man meets her glare. Then his gaze softens.
‘It is coming,’ he goes on. ‘Sooner than you think.’
She closes her eyes briefly, casts her mind back. ‘I’ve seen you before, haven’t I? Not here. On the lakeshore, to the north. That was more than ten years ago, and you warned us of war.’ She narrows her eyes, studies his face more closely. His tawny skin is smooth, untouched by any line, though a faint scar crosses his brow, and another his jaw; his eyes grey, his hair as dark as a raven’s wing. She remembers that day, ten - or twelve, or fifteen years ago: a bright day upon the lakeshore, she having gone to meet with distant kin, trade milk for herbs. He had been there, a foreigner, but one who spoke their tongue, selling trinkets during the day, playing the harp in the evening, wanting to hear all their tales and all their tidings, and - in whispers - warning of war to come. Of the tribute in blood which the Mighty One would exact. Saying more dangerous things - but she had not stayed to listen, had only heard rumours, afterwards. His accent had been more pronounced then, but otherwise -
‘You have not changed. I would say you are scarcely over twenty now, and yet you seemed just as young then. And yet I do not think you one of the white-fiends.’ She leans closer, peers into his eyes. The white flame is not there.
‘No,’ he says.
Sudden suspicion roils in her belly. ‘Are you a spy of the Admirable One, then? Is this a test of our loyalty?’ Such things happen, sometimes; men who have spoken ill in any way are taken away, and most do not return. Some do, and that is worse. If he is then she may be lost already.
‘That I am not,’ he answers.
A spy of the Admirable One might not age, but would be too cunning to let anyone anyone notice.
‘A servant of the white-fiends after all, then? One of the thralls’ kin? How can we know that you do not mean to deceive us, to make us leave so that you can recover your lands?’
‘Not their servant,’ the man says. ‘But kin - yes. And you know this is no deception. I say again what I said then. The enemy in the north has ever deceived you, and used you. Leave his service. Let such as your thralls remain go free - do that if you can do naught else. Those who bear arms may go south, and offer to bear arms for the hosts there, though any man who has held thralls should be wary, lest he find himself among enemies, for he will not be de fended against any he claimed to possess. And all may go east. The way is harsh, over the highlands and the mountains, but it is better than what is to come here. To those who ask, aid will be given, and escorts to thwart the Enemy. And this I add: go sooner rather than later. Go before the fire comes, and the earth breaks.’
Silence. When next she speaks, her throat is clogged, her voice thick.
‘For this I should have you put into into chains by our chief, and dragged to the one you call the enemy.’
‘You will not bring to harm one you healed but a day before.’
She glances away from him, looks into the fire, and down at her hands. Hands made to heal, aye, but the sorrow that rises in her is beyond curing. Hands, aye, and feet and bones grown too old for perilous roads and pathless lands.
‘We have travelled so far,’ she says, ‘from the east to the west. All for lies, and a prison between mountains. This was in the days before my birth, but I know my kin are weary and sick at heart.’
‘So is mine,’ he says, and the grief in his voice seems to her to be beyond his age. ‘But they, and I, and you, must leave. There is no succour left for us in Beleriand, no hope of remaining.’
She meets his eyes again.
‘If you are of that people,’ she says, ‘then yours and mine are foes, and mine did grievous harm to yours. Why do you come here alone, into peril, to tell us these things? I have heard rumours of the hosts by the sea. We will not stand in their way long.’
‘To learn your arts,’ he says, showing his wrist, and smiles crookedly. ‘To listen to your tales. Foes, but then I was reared among the enemies of my kin - this very harp I learned to play from them. As for you and I - the children of foes, yes, and my grandfather a thrall of yours. But kin also in elder days, I hold, though the memory of it is lost. Kin in that we are of a mortal kindred, and need not let brief lives be briefer still through the shedding of blood and the keeping of old feuds. Your people need not all die here, in the breaking of the land - is that not reason enough to come?’
‘Now in truth you speak as one of the white-fiends, of death and undeath, and the short lives of pitiful mortals.’
He winces, and seems very weary, both old and young. She closes her eyes, feels only the warmth of the fire, hears only the sound of the rain.
‘You cannot play,’ she says. ‘But will you not sing?’
So he does. His voice is low, but very clear, lovely beyond words, a voice like flowing water. He sings in the tongue of the thralls, one of their songs: a mournful song, for a lost land, and lost kin, slain by the Mighty One and by treachery; a song such as they sang in their huts, or else beneath the stars.
She listens, and thinks of the earth, and how it moves beneath her feet. An end to the Mighty One. The thought comes unbidden to her mind, and she finds that, treacherous as that is, she is not sad to think it. An end to this land also.
Such a long way, east and over the mountains. She is not young. Her eldest daughters have children of their own now, some still babes in arms; her youngest, her son, scarcely knows when to fight - and when not to.
But we travelled before, east to west. Was this not why her art was made, which her ten fingers know? To mend the hurts of all who rode or walked, who faced perils and strife. Knowing what was past mending, and what could be salvaged.
When the song ends, she opens her eyes. The boy seems more weary still.
‘You should sleep,’ she says. ‘Sleep will help you heal.’ Bleary-eyed, he nods, and lowers himself to the pallet.
Soon enough, he is asleep, face half-buried in the cloak he’s laid under his head, lips parted. He looks young again, the ruddy light of the fire playing upon his face. The dog sniffs at him, makes a turn, and lies down again, resting against the boy.
And she sits, and sleeps, and dreams - of fire spouting from the earth, of rivers twisting from their beds, of the lake growing wider and wider and deeper till all it has swallowed all the land, of things that cannot be held. Then she wakes, and thinks - of the road ahead, of the children of her children’s children, who will never hear this wind in the mountains, or see the silver light upon the lake under the clouds, but who will live, perhaps, under other skies.
*
When dawn comes, the storm is gone. The sky outside her window is blue and bright, scrubbed clean. Outside, the stranger is standing by her herb garden, his pack and his harp by his feet.
‘Whither now?’
‘To the lake, and what villages lie between here and there, to tell others what I told you. I thank you for all that you did for me.’
She nods, hands him the little dried meat she has set aside for him. With more thanks, he opens his pack one-handed, slips the food inside.
‘Be careful with that wrist,’ she says, and takes his right hand in hers, sets her fingertips against the wrist - very gently, to make sure that her work keeps. With his free hand, he clasps hers. ‘Don’t fall again.’
He laughs. ‘I will try not to.’
In truth there may be far worse things ahead. Closer to the lake, where the lands are richer, there are some whose loyalty to the Mighty One is deeper, who have grown used to holding good lands and having thralls to till them. They will not take kindly to him.
‘Will you come again?’
‘If I can. I meant what I said, when I asked to learn from you. I do not know what gift I have, but I should like to learn. I shall try to come again, and perhaps travel with you - if you are willing. But if I do not return, leave without me.’ He hesitates. ‘Down in the south, my brother - my twin, Elros - is becoming a great chieftain of our kin. He knows what I try to do, and if you ask for his protection he shall grant it to you.’
She lets go, and he shoulders his pack, lifts his harp. ‘Goodbye!’ he calls out, as he walks. ‘Thank you! Goodbye!’
She watches him go, a smaller and smaller silhouette upon the path, and above in the bright sky the high winds chase wisps of white clouds from west to east.