Fikta the Tinker
'This evenin', me we darlin's, Daidí Beag has invited a friend to tell a portion of Beannaithe's story. Please show him your utmost courtesy.'
'What's courtesy?' asked Diolun.
'Somethin' ye have none of!' answered Darowva in a whisper. 'Ssshh!'
'I am called Fikta,' said the Dwarf. 'I was once a smith of some renown among the Dwarves, but that was many years ago. Old age has dimmed my hearing and sight, and robbed my hammer hand of its strength.'
'I seldom stay in one place for long. Over the course of a year I travel from my dwelling in the Blue Mountains in the West, over hill and dale, mountain and forest to the Lonely Mountain in the East and then back again, peddling my wares--trinkets, knickknacks, and pretty little baubles--and mending things that need repair.'
'I thought he looked familiar!' whispered Dooli.
'His voice is strange,' observed Daibhidh. 'Do all Dwarf-folk speak like that?'
'Ssshh!' said Darowva.
'I'm a handy fellow to have around,' Fikta continued, 'until I'm not. Then I move on to the next place along my route.
Many older folk scowl when they see me. They mutter unkind words under their breath. Years of hammering may have lessened my hearing, but not so much that I do not hear their oaths and curses, or at least of my ability to read the words upon their sneering lips.
I am most fond of the small children I meet. It warms my old heart to see their bright faces and to hear their infectious laughter. They like to tug my long beard to see if it's real, and to ask about my baubles. They also want to know about the places I've been and the things I've seen. I am happy to oblige them with tales of my adventures.
I also tell the children of the Valar, and Mahal in particular. Mahal created the Dwarves in the depths of time, before Elves or Men walked the earth. He made them to be strong and unyielding, for they would endure great hardship, and taught them the lore and craft of smithing.(1)
I'd made my annual visit to the Little Folk of Lyndelby. It's a place that's difficult to find, even for a seasoned traveller such as myself. If you take the wrong path you could find yourself in very great peril. Trolls, wargs and goblins do not take kindly to Dwarves trodding into their territory. They'd soon as eat you as look at you. Old Fikta may not taste good to them, but they'd gobble me down and gnaw on my bones for good measure. Fortunately, I have a keen nose for danger, and do my best to avoid it.'
'Fikta,' I whispered to the Dwarf, 'best leave out the bloody bits. Their mothers wouldn't approve.'
'Understood,' he replied with a wink.
'I had a fine visit in Lyndelby. Folks are mostly friendly, and the children were particularly curious about me and my wares. Their mums and dads often have to pry them away from my cart. Fortunately, they usually feel obliged to purchase something to compensate me for my time. Good folk, them Little People.
I'd been on the road for several hours towards my next destination when I heard a soft mew like that of a kitten. I thought maybe some beastie had crawled into my cart. Instead I found a small maid-child of about four years of age. She'd bundled herself up in a blanket and fallen asleep. I was too far along the road to turn back, so I found a spot to camp, made a fire, and set the child close by to keep her warm.
When she awoke the next morning the child was ravenously hungry. I gave her some of my breakfast: rashers, fried taters and eggs. She greedily ate anything I set before her. A pretty child she was, golden curls and a pale round face like the moon. I'd always wanted a child, but no Dwarf lass would have me for a husband. Too ugly, I suppose. Perhaps the Valar had intervened and given me this child? I wanted to think so.
As you may have already guessed, the next morning I didn't turn back to Lyndelby but kept moving right on South. I hoped to meet a caravan of Dwarves that would be travelling through the mountain passes into Eriador.'
'This is a fine place to pause the story, Dwarf,' I said. 'The wee darlin's are noddin' somethin' fierce.'
'Aye,' Fikta replied. 'I noticed that myself.'
We two, an old Hobad ("Hobbit") and even older Dwarf, led the children to their beds for their night's rest.
(1) J.R.R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion
