One of the tales of Númenor concerning Trastor, as told by the lore-keeper of the Dúnedain, Gwetheril.
In the days before the seas were bent, and still from the highest mountain the keenest eyed of the Edain could see a glimpse of the white shored West, a sailor idled off the coasts of Númenor. His family was of middling standing, not learned in lore or greatly gifted in mind, courage, or any skill at all that their neighbours could see. Yet always, by some strange strokes they found themselves unaccountably prosperous. This their neighbours found most unfair, for oh if such fortune had landed on them! Then would it be put to good use, stewarded for the good of all.
For this son, Trastor by name, took his father’s finest gem and sold it to inlay his small boat with designs and gilding, done with more an eye to spectacle than elegance. Gaudy and bright was the ship when the sun hit her, but upon the water, as a speck on the distant horizon she shone with the lustre of the glorious ships of the Eldar.
Perhaps bored with merely riding the currents of life, and desiring to build something of worth, or perhaps to still the restless tongues of his neighbours, the father decided to send a message to some distant kin on the far shore of Middle Earth. To this end, he tasked Trastor with taking the boat, (for great vessels of kings and lords might take offence at such a small boat being given the title of ship, no matter garish the gilding). Now at last it would see service, and be turned to uses other than those of hitherto—when the feckless man tarried far enough from land to avoid anything that might be known as duty.
He got out upon the wide ocean, but some strange calling in the wind drove him, and many afterwards said that madness took him as he turned his boat from the east. For many days he saw nothing but the fish that leapt curiously out of the spray, and the endless sea that mirrored the flying clouds.
At last, amid the grey and blue of the waves there rose an island, more green than the most verdant leaf of Númenor. With light heart he anchored off the coast, taking this turn of fortune as he had all others—with the unquestioned and unshaken belief that all the world existed for his own pleasure and to serve his needs.
For weeks he tarried on the island, finding it rich beyond his greatest imaginings. The distant mountains were covered with the living gold of marigolds. Thick in the air was the scent of valley lavender, as keen and shrill as Elven pipes that cast men into a waking dream. At one moment the thought flitted through his mind that he perhaps had turned West instead of south, and found the shore of blessed Aman. Like most thoughts, it left his mind as quickly as it had entered.
He was not blind to the beauty around him, yet true delight did not awake until he saw among the flowers emeralds so large it seemed no large feat to fashion a weapon out of the gems themselves. Nothing had yet sought to harm him, yet he eyed the over-large butterflies with some trepidation as they flitted about the lavender with colors gay as lordly banners.
Onward he went, with emerald club held out before him, occasionally swinging it in the direction of the darting butterflies. They paid him no heed, though everywhere it seemed the tinkling sound of laughter followed him.
He lost track of the count of days and nights, and could not say whether it had been but one or many. He had slept more than once, but little might that be wondered at, for even on the shores of Númenor he never was so occupied that he could not find time aplenty for lengthy naps.
At last he came to the foot of the mountain, and in front of him alighted a butterfly, as brilliantly orange and purple as the coral off the coast. He brandished his club, but then she spoke, with a voice akin to the clear voice of the Eldar, and again he felt that he trespassed on some haven of the maiar. “We have suffered you to walk our land, eat our fruits, and taste our streams. Yet beyond here is a lake, and those that rule it are less kindly. For there dwell also on this island dragonflies more perilous than any that buzz upon other waters. They will grant leave neither to you nor to us to set eyes upon their golden lake. This is their charge, and in it, they do not sleep.”
Trastor stood spellbound while the ring of the butterfly’s voice faded into silence. At last he roused himself, and he was filled with a desire to see this butterfly’s eyes filled with admiration for his mighty deeds. Raising his voice he cried, “Fear not, for I shall free this lake! These guardians with all their vile watch shall fall before me!”
The butterfly vainly called after him as he rushed on, but as enchanted as he had been but one moment prior, he now paid her no heed. His mind was filled with the thought of glory. For surely if he returned, and told of his great victory over the mightiest of dragonflies, this butterfly would sing of his great deeds, and all the maids of Númenor swoon at the sight of the mighty hero.
Puffed up with these thoughts, he shouted as he ran, “Come forth and face me ye recreant bugs! Face the mariner champion!”
Arrayed against him came the might of the dragonfly army, buzzing in grim formations. As the butterfly had spoken, they were fell indeed, their outstretched wings the length of a man. Possessed with some strange courage, he lifted his club, and not waiting for them to take action, charged straight for the center of their line.
Long the battle raged. The dragonflies defended their lake, sometimes pushing him back as far as the foot of the mountain, then again he would advance as far as the shore of the lake. This angered them all the more, for it was not fit that mortal eyes should see the shining lake that glimmered gold as Arien’s light, and tasted as sweet as the darkest honey.
As he fought he thought he could almost hear the great shouts and cries that would meet him upon his triumphant return. Thrice they, with numbers on their side drove him back, but not once was his belief in the superiority of his might shaken.
At last, with bruised wings and vanquished pride, they despaired and fled, retreating to the hidden hollows of their land. And the victorious messenger filled his water skin with the water of the golden lake, and tasted the results of his victory. He tarried by the shore awhile, and though often he heard the hum of giant wings, none harried him.
He dwelt there in contentment, until at last the draw of acclaim at home grew stronger than his delight in long naps on the golden shore. So he took up his emerald club and as much of the sweet water as he could, and made his way back to shore of the sea. The butterflies watched him but he took little heed to their silence. It was little wonder that they should be awe-struck and wordless in his presence.
His little boat seemed strangely dim after the brilliance of the lake, for all her impressive gilding But he turned his prow north, and carried hither and thither at the mercy of the winds, he at last returned to the familiar port of home.
On the shore, his father did not wait even for his son to disembark before shouting question after question, relentless as the waves. Trade agreements, business and negotiations—there was room in his mind for naught else, neither concern for his son’s well-being, nor interest in the tales of his voyage.
Trastor was, as might be expected, unable to give a report of the reception of the undelivered message. So he brought out the giant emerald, and held it up, letting the light play across its perfect facets, more fair than any seen since the Eldar days. He spoke of his victory in a wondrous land. His father was unmoved, and his face contorted in anger as he shoved aside the jewel. “Leave thy dallying, and do not return until thou hast delivered thy message.”
Trastor did as he was bid, but now the call of the distant horizon and song of the waves seized his heart. Stirred to seek fair and strange lands, he turned his prow towards unknown waters.
In other tales are told of his voyages, to Thellamie and beyond, of his falling under deadly spells and learning knowledge no man should seek. Yet whether at last he reached the shores of Middle Earth to deliver his message is not in any tale told.
