From Applecider Bolingbroke, Pursuer of Plant-Lore, to Mister Cutch Crane, Torech Besruth Steward, an' Missie Seregrian, Well-Rounded:
Greetin’s from Thorin’s Hall, latest stop in me caper for kingsfoil cultivation!
Mister Langlas be a fascinatin’-lookin’ bloke: A hazel-eyed Man who braids ‘is thick cinnamon beard like a Dorf, but styles ‘is hair half-up an’ plaited like an Elf. – Very unique effect.
He also be the first non-Elf-non-Dorf I think I ever met to speak the language o’ both. Very diplomatic of 'im (to say nothin' of linguistically impressive).
Of me Plant Enterprise, I think the Green-Hood were equally intrigued as ‘e were uncertain. But with Mister Halros’s letter, ‘e agreed to play intermediary. So with Maddie wheelin’ gaily about the skies while Eero snurfed up the wild smells o’ the Blue Mountains, we saddled up an’ made fer Dorf country.
On the ride, I gave ‘im all the news ‘o Duillond. Mister Langlas in turn taught me a couple ‘o rudimentary Dorf greetin’s, an’ a couple o’ useful cultural quirks of which ter be mindful.
Dorfs, fer example, tax food an’ drink based on sale price. So meat an’ beer in a Dorf tavern’s incredibly cheap – but yer expected to tip twice as much again, to ‘elp the barkeep game the system.
Sayin’ “Now that’s cheese,” be jargon tantamount to “Well thar’s a bit interestin.’”
The number 26 be profoundly unlucky (Dorf youth’ll claim ter be 27 fer two years, to be safe).
An’ refreshingly, sayin’ somene “fights like a woman” be a testament o’ ferocity (As Mister Langlas drily put it, Dorf men just as often fight fer the sake o’ the brawl. If a Dorf woman lays hand to 'er axe ... she means to kill yeh).
Approachin’ an agronomist at Thorin’s Hall took a bit of inquiry (another thing Dorfs be VERY fond of is Connections). Luckily Mister Langlas knew some folks to start with. Eventually – through Guardsman Skógi’s captain’s grandson’s neighbor’s ninepin bowling partner’s sister-in-law’s brewmaster’s barley supplier – we obtained an introduction to Búkk, an expert horticulturalist in the great Gardenin’ Halls.
Now. Any Beardie Dorf swells with the pride of a soufflé if hailed as the Finest of ‘is Craft. But Mister Búkk were frankly gobsmacked: Skinny Elfs have got such a handle on repute as the “Green Thumbs” o’ the World, ‘e’d genuinely never been approached by an outsider fer gardenin’ advice.
So tickled were ‘e, Mister Búkk ‘ad us to dinner. His jovial missus Heidhrún baked a mean cabbage roll. An’ their wee sprout Ibrizakt (means ‘Daisy’) be the sweetest creature alive. She gaped at both of us: Mister Langlas be the first Big Folk she ever saw. A towerin’ GIANT from ‘er view. An’ me own beardless face mesmerized ‘er. As if she ‘en’t known the true form of a mouth, or chin afore.
Mister Búkk be silly proud of ‘is wee progeny: The very jewel of the mountain flowers, yes you are – ooh look at you chewin’ on yer own little feet, aren’t you precious – *tickle-tickle,* *giggle-giggle.*
T'were a promisin' start. Once dinner were served up, an’ Ibriz were settled with a bottle o’ milk stout, we commenced discourse.
The properties o’ kingsfoil (or ibsêtmajd), he were familiar with. The Elf/ Dúney-Folk-induced migratory history of it? Thar were news to ‘im.
Mister Búkk said that explained SO many things.
Now, I can’t PROVE me theory that kingsfoil only “followed” where Dúney folks lived cause it be a delicate plant, what don’t handle shock well. Or that Elfs an’ Dúney folks carried pre-germinated seedlings in pots or sacks, with a bit of “native” soil nesting.
But drawin’ on a life of experience, Mister Búkk said the concept makes perfect sense.
Somewhat cynically (‘specially to Mister Langlas’s ears), he went so far as to speculate that, in handling it so fastidiously, early-Age Elfs an’ Dúney Folks may’ve unwittingly sealed kingsfoil’s status as such a rarity by their own hand.
Find a tree what grows a particularly sweet apple. Or a tough strain of wheat against fungus. Culture it again and again, exactly as-is – he says – and the line eventually goes stagnant. Aye you get tasty apples at first. But replicatin' only one strain, under the same conditions, eventually highlights its weakness to something else. What’s hardy against fungus may be susceptible to frost, or similar.
Sticking his neck out on behalf of ‘is Ancestors, Mister Langlas tersely argued that – given athelas’s “original” Beleriand provenance were wiped out, while Númenor were an isolated island – early Númenóreans may’ve only HAD one “strain” at all to work with.
“Hrghmm.” Mister Búkk were willing to concede the unfortunateness, if that were true. “Laudable skill, what could keep the line going all this time, to be sure – By all the Fathers’ Beards, I’d not envy them the job. ... Still, though,” he chomped ‘is cabbage. “Better to’ve pushed its boundaries to the limit – even at risk of losing a few specimens. – Cultivation’s not about consistency; it’s about adaptability. And that’s what you’ve got cut out for you.”
He fired an imperative stare at me, straight down the length of ‘is fork.
“If ever you manage to get more than a few plantlets grown on your own terms, I want you to challenge them. Start easy. Maybe tease the acidity a bit. Chop up a few oak leaves, pine needles, coffee grounds ... do they even drink coffee in Elflands?” – (oh my; someone’s never met Missie Sergie before) – “Until you can move ‘em out of this ‘greenhouse’ of yours, split up batches by planters. Play with the moisture in this one. Throw a basil and a poppy seed in that one; teach ‘em to play nice with neighbors. Crack a window; change up the breeze. The heat. The light ... aahhhh ... the light.”
Finally. We’d come to the real purpose for which I’d sought ‘im out in the first place.
“You gonna clue a lady in ‘ow you keeps a low soft light indoors then?”
“I thought you said you were a bard, you beardless wonder." Mister Búkk beamed, topping off everyone's mugs. "Don’t tell me you don’t know The Song?”
Mister Langlas were sittin’ back with ‘is tankard, listening to us. I did a double-take, as a tenor hum rose, in a softly resonant rumble from somewhere at the back of ‘is throat. – Mister Búkk an’ Missus Heidhrún reflexively latched onto it. As if all Dorfs are taught from birth ter harmonize in B-flat minor.
I threw an F in there, just to round out a fifth of the chord, an’ say aye, yeah, alright, I got it.
Natch I be aware o’ the only epic to which Beardie Dorfs’d afford the appellation of “THE Song;” I knows the Song of Durin.
Granted I never thought to apply it to greenhouse illumination. But as Mister Búkk put it? The words were right there:
The light of sun and star and moon
In shining lamps of crystal hewn
Undimmed by cloud or shade of night
There shone for ever fair and bright.
“The arms of the very earth,” Mister Búkk became unexpectedly poetical, “run with crystalline veins. From clear white, to every color, most subtle, most brilliant! – Taken in from the skies – Borne to the heart of the World, on facet and face of every gem in the earth’s keeping – The heart of Khazad-dûm itself is alive with light, though the face of the mountains be a league above! – Ours to catch, to craft, to mesh in jewel and in mail – Cast off glass and metal mirror, to light our every hall as we like!”
“Soooo ... Yeh catches light in pockets ‘o crystal ... an’ reflects it in mirrors, then?”
“There is, dear lady, NOTHING that can’t be grown with the light of the skies alight in the heart of the mountains.” Mister Búkk almost took a header into his tankard with his zeal. “You will see tomorrow; I’ll show you myself. The earth shields, the earth FEEDS! Khazâd ai-mênu!!”
Baby Daisy squealed an’ fell over laughing so hard she got the hiccups. Missus Heidhrún declared it bedtime.
Next morning after breakfast, I put Ibriz on me back an’ took Eero for a walk while everyone else braided their beards fer the day. An’ then? Mister Búkk took us to the Hall of Growin’.
This time it were I who were completely mesmerized.
Mister Búkk may’ve gotten carried away with pride of ‘is craft, but thar be reason enough for it:
Practically speakin’ (as ‘e said), light comes down through the crystal veins. Mirrors an’ free-hangin’ crystal lamps then redirect it. These lamps an’ mirrors be adjustable on hinges, to increase or decrease intensity, dependin’ on ‘ow much light a plant needs. With the gardens arrayed thusly, a Dorf gardener gots complete control of soil and illumination alike.
The Hall produces everything from sunny corn an’ tomatoes to root veggies to wheat to cherry trees. Indoors! – I were awestruck. An’ Mister Búkk an’ all ‘is gardener mates were unaffectedly pleased.
Since me own greenhouse be above ground, they say I’ll nae need mirrors: Just shutter the windows to a mere crack, an’ divert through a simple lamp. Tilt or rearrange the crystal shards to adjust as needed. Mister Búkk picked one out for me ‘imself, an’ expects a detailed report ‘o progress.
As do Mister Langlas, frankly. I’m startin’ to feel a lot of eyeballs on me.
Mister Langlas an’ I be arrangin’ fer a cart, so’s we can carry me new Dorf crystal home. I deploys Maddie from Thorin’s Hall in advance of our comin’ cause I secretly be hopin’ you gots a stepladder at the Lair, Sir ... otherwise, I may have to take up climbin'. Results would not be guaranteed.
Cheers, Luvs ~ C
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