The Silver Flute
(This tale was told over two weeks at the Green Dragon Friday roleplaying event. It forms part of a larger work in progress which I am calling ‘The Ghosts of the Shire’. The stories can stand alone, but readers may be interested to read my ‘Introduction’ to that work.)
A few weeks ago, I received a letter in the Quick Post to let me know that my Uncle Waldo had died. I hadn’t heard from the old boy in a while, but the sad news brought back memories of accompanying him on fishing trips in my youth, exploring some of the lesser-known streams and pools that run through the marshlands south of Woodhall, where I was born, and close to which he lived all his life.
Uncle Waldo lived alone and had few other close relatives. The letter asked if I would be kind enough to visit his hobbit hole to settle his affairs and to decide what to do with his belongings. So it was that the very next day I saddled up my faithful pony, Dobbin, and set out for the Eastfarthing.
Uncle Waldo’s burrow lay in a quite isolated spot several miles to the south of the village. It was set in a mossy bank close to the fringe of the leafy woodland which covers much of that region, but from the front door one had a clear view across the sleepy Stockbrook to the expanse of marshland which lay beyond.
Waldo was not wealthy and as I surveyed his sparse possessions, I reflected on how little we may leave behind us to be remembered by, but I was at once cheered as I recalled the many happy hours I had once spent in his company, and I was reminded that we live on in the memories we leave behind for others.
It did not take me long to arrange for anything of use to be collected and disposed of – some rickety furniture, some old clothes and a few old books and papers. In a cupboard I found his fishing equipment and I thought I might keep an item or two as a memento. As I searched through the assorted tackle, I uncovered tucked away behind his creel a rectangular wooden box made of oak wood, its lid firmly closed by an iron clasp. It looked like the sort of thing Uncle might have once used to keep his hooks and lures in, so you may imagine my surprise when, upon opening it, I found inside a silver flute.
As I brought it into the light, I could see that it was very finely crafted, and upon closer inspection I saw that intricately inscribed on the lip plate were two runic letters and a tiny insignia in the form of a curved ram’s horn. I should say as well that at the very moment I lifted it from the box I imagined that it felt suddenly warm in my hand and seemed to be possessed, for just an instant, by an unnatural glow.
Now I could not recall that my Uncle Waldo had ever played the flute, or indeed any other instrument, and even if he did, I knew that he could never have afforded to own one such as this. I had intended to make my way to Stock to spend the night at the Golden Perch before setting off for home the following day but instead I spent the night in Uncle’s broken old bed pondering the mystery of that silver flute. It was very strange - as if someone or something was compelling me to try to discover its secret.
I was not able to decipher the runic lettering – I am no scholar – but the ram’s horn symbol reminded me of something I had once seen in a book and, in a flash, it came to me. It was the sign of the Horn Call of Buckland, used by some of the old Buckland families in memory of the service they gave when the call came. I knew that it was to Buckland I must go!
I carefully lifted the flute from its box and placed it in the leather bag attached to my belt, then, with a final glance at Uncle’s home, rode Dobbin down to the bank of the stream. There are few paths and trails through the marshes in those parts and it is easy to lose one’s way, but I knew that if we followed the course of the Stockbrook it would bring us to the Brandywine, not far from the Bucklebury Ferry.
For much of its course the Stockbrook runs between steep narrow banks overgrown with bramble bushes. We had to make several detours around impossibly muddy ground or reed beds which grew higher than my head and as we made our precarious way I was reminded of the trips I made in my uncle’s company in search of finny prey – not just to this stream but longer excursions which took us further south to the winding Thistle Brook, to Willowbottom where it meets the Shirebourn and once even as far as Deephallow itself where the Shirebourn empties into the mighty Brandywine close to the treacherous Overbourn Marshes. For most, these would have been dangerous journeys indeed, but Uncle knew this country like the back of his hand.
We came at last to a place near the mouth of the Stockbrook and found a firmer and more well-used trail which brought us to the ferry. Dobbin had little experience of rafting on water and became a little skittish, but we crossed the great river successfully and with a cheery wave to the Bounder on the opposite bank we made our way to Brandy Hall where I thought it best to begin my enquiries. I knew that the library there, though in no way as extensive as the one at Great Smials, held a wealth of information on Buckland people and its history.
Leaving Dobbin grazing close to the river I made my way up a steep path and through a stone archway into a beautifully kept garden, buzzing with the sound of bees, busy among the colourful myriad blooms which grew there, from which emanated such sweet, intoxicating scents. The Master of the Hall himself greeted me at the portal and when I explained my mission he at once summoned a servant to escort me to the library.
There, seated at a table, I was introduced to the librarian, a very ancient hobbit who sat peering over a large leather-bound tome through a pince-nez perched precariously on the end of his nose. When I handed him the flute and explained why I had come, he examined the inscription closely, mumbled a few words to himself, rose painfully to his feet, shuffled off to one of the shelves to consult a book there and, when he returned, sat down, cleared his throat and pronounced in a thin reedy voice:
“The runes are shown in an old-fashioned form peculiar to these parts and they represent the sounds ‘I‘ and ‘S‘. I would imagine that they are the owner’s initials, but who that might be I cannot tell. The ram’s horn symbol, as you correctly surmise, represents the Horn Call of Buckland. It was indeed used by a number of the old families hereabouts – but by one in particular. The Swelling family resided in Standelf for many years and owned extensive lands and properties there. Sadly, their line has long since died out and they left few records. I am afraid I cannot help you further in your search.” He bowed his head slightly and straight away turned his attention back to the book he had been studying.
I had never been to Standelf, which lies on the eastern bank of the Brandywine some way south of Brandy Hall, along the old road to Haysend. As I returned to where Dobbin grazed it crossed my mind that I had done as much as I could to solve the mystery and it was time to return home but as I looked upon the flute before returning it to my belt bag I felt once more that sudden warmth in my hand and the flute seemed lit for a moment with that same unnatural lustre, although it may have just been a trick of the sunlight.
Be that as it may, I soon found myself riding at a brisk trot past the forge and the crafters before taking the old and little used road along the riverbank towards Standelf. The road was overgrown in places and as we drew close to the place where I knew the village must lie, I saw a tall, circular ruin, set atop a low bluff. I thought it must once have been a grand hall for the remains of a high tower could be discerned at its summit, but now only the jackdaws and crows inhabited its stark, stone skeleton.
The place seemed deserted, with just a few rundown cottages nestling against the high cliff which loomed darkly over it off to my left. Then, turning to the river, I spied a solitary figure seated on the bank. As I approached, I saw there an old hobbit, his nut-brown features wizened and wrinkled with age and exposure to the weather. He was fishing, and his attention had been fixed firmly on his float, but he looked up when I approached, greeting me with a broken-toothed smile.
I wasted no time in showing him the silver flute which he examined carefully before letting out a long sigh. He turned to me and bade me sit next to him, saying:
“I am probably the only one left who remembers the story. Let me tell it to you.”
As I joined him there the old fellow took a long puff on an old briar pipe before starting his tale.
“What I am about to tell you was handed down to me through many generations. My family have been fisherfolk here for as long as may be remembered. Many are the tales that have been handed down and, since it doesn’t concern fish, I can vouch that this one is probably true!”
The old chap chuckled throatily to himself before continuing.
“Long ago the Swelling family was one of the leading families in all Buckland, second only to the Brandybucks themselves. They claimed they could trace their line back to the times of Bucca himself and that when Gorhendad Oldbuck came across the river and settled here they came too.
“They made their home close by to where we are sitting now – you will have seen the ruin back along the road. It was once their family residence, a great hall grander than any other save Brandy Hall. Over time they came to own many properties, farms and businesses and amassed great wealth and influence on this side of the river, and a proud lot they were too, by all accounts.
“At the time of the Fell Winter when the Horn Call of Buckland was first sounded, they were among the first to heed the call and fought bravely when the white wolves came ravaging. In memory of that time, they took to using the device of a ram’s horn as their family emblem – that same device you can see inscribed on this flute here.
“Now one of the proudest of them all, and, as it turned out the last, was Audomar Swelling. He was the head of the family and there is nothing old Audomar wanted more than to see his only son, Inigo, carry on the family tradition. A fine-looking lad he was, tall for a hobbit, light-skinned and fair of face with a full head of golden curls, yet to his father he was a disappointment.
“Inigo showed little interest in expanding the family’s lands or enterprises or in improving his skills as a hunter or warrior. Though his family was rich he was not given to making a show of his wealth or loudly boasting of it. Instead, he was ever modest and gentle in demeanour and his love was for nature and the wild places of the Shire, for reading old tales and, above all else, for music. It is said that when he put the silver flute he always carried with him to his lips, every living creature that heard stopped to listen, entranced by the magical notes he played.”
The old man paused for a moment to examine the instrument, which he still held in his hand, before continuing.
“Much to his father’s displeasure he would spend his time making music in the company of minstrels who, even back then, frequented the fair at Bucklebury, or he would spend hours wandering in the furthest reaches of the boggy places which lie across the river.
“It was there that he found himself one hot summer day, ambling aimlessly beside the countless streams and pools which characterised that watery landscape. He took great delight in hearing the many different sounds to be heard – birdcall, the drowsy buzzing of mosquitos, the gentle splash of a fish jumping, the sighs of the wind in the rushes, the harsh croak of a frog – the music of the marsh.
“On this day, though, a new note reached him, blown across the waters on the softest of breezes - a girl’s voice, faint at first, singing a song of great beauty, yet one that told of great sadness and longing too. At once he quickened his step and made for the source of that enchanting melody until he came to the edge of a reedbed and saw her standing at its centre, her back turned to him.
“Her dark hair fell about her shoulders, and she wore a plain, thin dress. Her arms and legs were bare, and her skin was of a rich, nut-brown hue and under one arm she held a small bundle of rushes which she was cutting with an iron hook. As she worked, she sang, and Inigo listened, spellbound for a short while, before taking his flute, putting it to his lips and picking up her melody. She at once paused and turned, startled, but on seeing him approach she smiled and resumed her song. Her name was Bella and if she had a family name, I do not know it.”
The old man reflected silently for a moment before relighting his pipe.
“Her mother, so it is said, had died when she was young and she lived with her father in a run-down shack, way out in the marshes. He was lazy and cruel, and he expected Bella to cook and clean for him. In the summer and autumn, she was sent out to collect rushes and osier branches which she wove into mats and baskets. These he would take to sell at market, for this was their only source of income. When she was but a girl, he would take Bella with him but as she grew into a beautiful young woman, he forbade her to come, for he feared that he would lose her to one of the young fellows who flocked to pay her attention. Often, he would drink too much and rant and rave, and Bella would hide lest he beat her.
“Inigo and Bella spent the rest of that summer and much of the autumn in each other’s company. Each day he would rise before his father awoke and cross the river to meet with her close to the place where they had first met. He would help her in her work, but she would not let him come to meet her father, for she knew that he would stop her from seeing him again. For hours they would wander hand in hand through the marshes and he would play upon his flute, and she would sing songs telling of the joy they found in each other’s company.
“Of course, they fell in love, and they knew that soon her father would keep her at home and set her to work weaving, for sufficient rushes and willow had been gathered in. Inigo went to his father, Audomar, and told him about Bella and said that he wished to marry her, but the old man would not hear of it, saying it would bring shame on the family for Inigo to wed some low-born wench from the other side of the river.
“So it was that the couple knew they must run away together to some place their fathers could not find them. They arranged that on the next night Bella would wait for her father to grow sleepy in his cups, as he always did, and that she would sneak out to meet Inigo at a place they had often visited on the bank of the Shirebourn, close to the edge of the Overbourn Marshes.
“The next evening Inigo gathered a few possessions together in a knapsack and slipped quietly out of one of the side doors to the hall. It had begun to rain, and he could see that a storm was brewing across the river where dark clouds loomed. Suddenly, he was confronted by his father who, on seeing that he carried a knapsack, at once demanded to know where he was going. Inigo could not lie, but when he told his father Audomar flew into a rage and summoned his servants, bidding them seize the boy and lock him in an upstairs room until he recovered his senses.
“Inigo beat loudly on the door for over an hour, begging his father to let him go, but no one came. Outside he heard the wind rising and the rain beating down and at last he could bear it no longer. Securing the knapsack on his back he squeezed himself out of the narrow window and at great risk to life and limb he made the precarious descent down the slippery stones of the wall, which were wet with rain.
“On reaching the ground he ran to the riverbank to the place where he had hidden his boat in readiness, but the river was in flood and the craft had been torn from its mooring. Without a second thought he threw himself into the flood and, fighting the powerful current every inch of the way, he at last reached the opposite bank. He ran and he ran, his way illuminated by the flashes of forked lightning which split the sky, until he came to the place where he had arranged to meet Bella.
“Earlier, the girl had had no trouble getting away from the shack where, with not a single shred of regret, she left her father snoring in a drunken stupor. She made her way across the marshes, tying a bright red scarf over her head in a vain attempt to keep off some of the incessant rain. When she arrived at their trysting place, a strip of stony ground standing between the bank of the river and the muddy reaches of the bog, Inigo was not there, and for over two hours she waited patiently for him. The storm rose all around her and she hunkered down, terrified, as lightning flashed and thunder roared. At last, as the storm reached its height, she was forced to her feet by a terrible gust of wind which ripped the scarf from her head, and she fled to find better shelter beneath a stand of willow nearby.
“When Inigo came to the meeting place there was no sign of Bella. He called out to her, but his voice was lost in the howling gale, then, illuminated by a lightning flash, he saw lying on the surface of the muddy bog a sodden red scarf which he knew was hers. He let out a great cry of despair and flung his knapsack to the ground. Pausing only to retrieve his silver flute he ran to fling himself headlong into the morass to join with, as he thought, his lost lover. As he ran, he tripped, and the silver flute flew from his grasp and landed in the mud on the riverbank. As the boy was sucked beneath the mud his hand reached out desperately in hope of regaining that treasured instrument.
“As the storm died, Bella emerged from the willows and returned to where she had waited. The storm clouds had been blown away on the breeze and a pale moon had appeared. In its thin light, to her horror, she discovered Inigo’s knapsack abandoned on the muddy margin of the bog. Sorely did she weep for her beloved. She knew that she could not bear to return to her life with her father and, lamenting loudly, she threw herself into the swamp and was sucked under at the very same spot where her lover had fallen earlier.
“And that,” said the old fisherman, “is the tale of Inigo and Bella as it was told to me.”
We sat in silence for a few moments, each, I think, reflecting on that tragic tale in his own way. By now, dusk was well advanced, and I thanked the old man for his help and told him I must leave. He handed the flute back to me and I returned it to its place in my belt bag, then set off at a brisk trot for the ferry. I knew that it would be very late by the time we reached Stock.
We crossed the river without incident and as we arrived at the far bank the first stars were twinkling in a clear sky. I was about to turn to head off up The Causeway when I felt a tugging at my waist where my belt bag hung. I quickly drew the silver flute from its bag, and I saw that it now glowed more brightly than before and, once again, it felt warm in my hand. In that moment I was overcome with a surge of energy which seemed to possess my entire being and what happened then was completely beyond my control.
Like a puppet, I slipped from the saddle and was led far across the marshes to the south. Who or what it was that led me I cannot say, for there was no one there to see, but it seemed that my eyes were not my own as something took me ever onwards, urgently seeking, but what it sought I knew not. At last, I was made to stop and listen and although it seemed that my hearing was strangely enhanced, for many minutes nothing but the normal night sounds of the marshes could be heard.
Then it came, softly and indistinct at first, but gradually growing louder until I heard it clearly. A girl’s voice, singing. And such singing! Oh, how I wish you could hear those songs of love and of the beauty in this world!
I was urged forward once more towards that voice until we came to where a bed of high reeds grew, from where stepped out two figures, bathed in a silvery light. One was a tall, handsome hobbit lad and the other, the singer, a beautiful hobbit girl. The boy reached out his hand towards me and the flute, which I still held, glowed brighter still and slipped my grasp. It shimmered there for a moment, taking on an indistinct and ethereal form before rising into the air and floating across to where he stood. Taking it in his own hand he put it to his lips, and he started to play a beautiful accompaniment to the songs the girl sang. Together, they turned and disappeared into the reeds, leaving me standing there alone and in awe for many more minutes, listening until they could be heard no more.
The next thing I remember is being back at the ferry. A figure dressed in a black cowl, its face hidden by the dark hood, stood before me holding Dobbin’s rein. It seemed strangely familiar, and I shuddered slightly. A deep, booming voice spoke these words:-
“Thank you once again. I have a small gift for you.”
Between bony fingers it held out to me the silver flute. I took it and I saw that it no longer glowed and that the marks and inscription on the lip plate were no longer there. The creature bowed slightly, handed me Dobbin’s rein and seemed to melt into the night. I gave a slight shudder before setting out on my long journey home.
