Bent Trees and Fallen Fruit

“What is this?”

Blinking away the dust of sleep, Amardal found herself sprawled in a chair between the shelves of Elrond’s library, An open book and a lamp whose flame had long guttered out were resting on a nearby table.

Before she could further take stock of her circumstances, the voice that had stirred her from sleep sounded from the doorway once more. “You must be the one called Amardal.” There, illuminated by wan gray light, stood the figure of an Elf.

Amardal stumbled to her feet. Her discomposure, which would have her remain silent, was suddenly rather at odds with a need to practice her Sindarin. “Forgive me! I would not impinge upon your study.”

“And indeed you have not,” said the Elf. 

Her throat tightened. “You know my name.”

“Few are the mortal guests of Lord Elrond. One will learn the names of any Men who dwell in Imladris for longer than a day or two. But do you know mine?”

She strained to make out his face through the haze of slumber. Surely she had seen him before—at a feast, sitting below the dais, or perhaps in the Hall of Fire. As a girl in the refuge of Esteldín, Amardal had occasionally heard that one kinsman or another was as fair as an Elf. Now the thought made her want to laugh. Although the Elf was tall and straight, gray-eyed and dark-haired, a Ranger of the North could be said to resemble him only in the way a pebble might resemble a pearl. Amardal was suddenly aware of her tangled hair and the tightness of her kirtle.

“You are called Orondil Tree-friend,” she said. “You tend the orchards here.”

Orondil smiled. “So you do remember.”

Amardal studied her shoes before searching the library’s floor for any dirty tracks she might have left behind. “It would be terribly impolite of me to forget the names of my kind hosts.”

“It would be,” said Orondil. “Yet if you had forgotten my name, I would not fault you for it. For a young Woman with a mortal’s memory, such mistakes are almost inevitable.” 

When Amardal fell dumb, the grove-keeper continued: “For all your talk of manners and hosts, I doubt that you are an ordinary guest. If a mortal Woman was invited here merely to enjoy the warmth of my lord’s hearth for her own pleasure, all of Imladris would hear about it in a week. It follows that one such as yourself would not linger so long in the Last Homely House without a purpose. Might you know why you are here, Amardal, and not in any other corner of Middle-Earth?”

“I have come as an apprentice,” she answered. To her own ears, her voice had grown rather thin. “I spent my girlhood learning all I could of healing and herb-lore, but my people only know so much. I assumed that if those recondite truths not known to the Dúnedain can be found anywhere in Eriador, they could be found here.”

Orondil regarded her with the serene mien of a statue. “So you are here to learn of that which has escaped the knowledge of Men. Is that why you were sleeping in Lord Elrond’s library?”

“No,” said Amardal, making for the door only to realize that he was following her. “Or perhaps yes. I was reading for so long that I rather forgot the hour. Please forgive my slovenliness.”

“So great a healer is my lord that in his house can be found a cure for every common ailment known on hither side of the Sea,” said Orondil. As they walked down the hall, he added, “Perhaps you might find a cure for slovenliness here.”

Against all reason and propriety, Amardal found herself turning to face him. “If you wish to make jokes of me and my embarrassment, I beg you to leave me be!” Her voice trembled. “You may laugh all you like in private; let me nurse my injuries alone.”

Mirth twinkled in Orondil’s eyes as he met her gaze. “I am not making light of your burdens,” he said. “I would show you how this place may heal those wounds of which you speak. Come with me.” Reluctant to appear ungrateful, she nodded her assent.

It seemed to Amardal that half the valley was still asleep when Orondil led her outside. The first leaves of autumn had begun to fall, strewn across the paths that wound outside the Last Homely House and through the gardens; the last flowers of the year were losing their hues and withering on the vine. Orondil strode uphill in silence, leaving Amardal with only her own thoughts to occupy her as she followed him up toward an unknown end. She wondered why he had approached her; what he had seen in her eyes that had provoked him to declare her in need of healing. Her wandering mind strayed to the shores of Nenuial, where she had watched shadows stirring in the mist.

The grove-keeper’s voice shattered her reverie like a stone thrown into calm waters. “Stay your steps,” he said, pointing to the ground. A procession of ants was crawling through his shadow. He bade her wait until the last of them had vanished into the grass on the far side of the path.

In silence they crested the hill and reached the edge of the orchard whose tending was Orondil’s duty. The wind rose, rustling a canopy of green leaves, and Amardal heard a hundred susurrant voices whispering wordlessly in her ear. A blushing apple bobbed on a bough too high for her to reach. 

“Why did you bring me here?”

Orondil turned toward her. “As Lord Elrond is the greatest of lore-masters, the library is his domain. And although I may not be the greatest of grove-keepers…”

“It is a fine orchard. You must care for it meticulously.” On a second glance, she spotted gold leaves among the green. The crisp fragrance of freshly fallen leaves lingered in the grove, mingling with the scent of tilled earth, but neither could mask the sticky sweetness she noticed beneath.

“It suits Men to state that which is plain to us Elves,” said Orondil. “Look again.”

Amardal began to count the neat rows of trees, noting that most of them were of a height, their boughs laden with unripe apples. Yet in the corner of her eye she spied a break in the pattern—a short, slender tree, its boughs unburdened with fruit, propped up on stakes. “What happened to that young tree?”

“I will show you.” Stepping nimbly over roots and stones, Orondil began to weave a path between the trees. Amardal plucked up her skirts, biting her tongue when her foot slid into a divot in the soft ground, and hurried after him. 

As she approached the young tree, Amardal spied a curve in its trunk where it rose from the ground. “Like the third of the Calmatéma,” she said, looking to Orondil.

He nodded. “That which is crooked may still grow straight.”

Yet Amardal’s gaze had already strayed to the shadow of the next tree over. Hidden in the shade sat a ripe apple, its flesh marred by a single gash crawling with ants.