It was early morning when Parnard burst through the doorway of the house in Herne. He bolted around back, and soon disappeared behind the shrub-covered hills, dashing across the rugged land, vaulting over red boulders, and diving through the undergrowth, giving no thought to where he fled. If he could avoid being seen against the open sky, he could put many leagues between himself and the wicked Men of Harad.
*****
At last the cold rain tapered off to a drizzle. An even thicker, foggier mist rose up from the fens for miles around. He spent hours gazing through the branches of a tall oak, listening to the wolves howl, straining his keen eyes to catch the gleam of a star through cloud and mist. Wearied and worn though he was, for he had been days without food or shelter, exposed to the biting wind and freezing rain, the fear of recapture prevented him from closing his eyes.
In spring the river was wider, owing to snow melt, and flowed along swiftly. Cattails and fresh green reeds would sprout, growing tall in the fecund black mud, swaying and rustling in the unceasing wind. Yet spring was a few months away, and now the river was turgid and the vegetation withered from Winter’s heavy veil. As far as the eye could see, the marshes were deserted. There were no guiding stars above; the skies were shrouded in mists in the Red Hill Land*; yet Parnard still clung to the branches of the aged oak, hoping that the dawning sun would eventually break through the clouds and burn the mists away, and then he could find his way home.
Thirst drove him to leave the safety of the treetop and creep to the bank of the rippling Greyflood to swallow water, then deciding the area was safe enough from prowling animals and Men alike, he crawled beneath a nearby patch of juniper and fell asleep on a bed of dry leaves.
The huge old tree where fate had led him was a favorite thinking place for Alfwread the River-Hobbit. In late spring, it concealed many nests of birds: yellow warblers, robins, titmice, sparrows, and wrens, but now it was the dead of winter, and the birds were not there, and even the squirrels were quiet. The wolves were far away, for they avoided the marshes, and the foxes hid warily, and the rabbits in their thick fur frisked and gamboled in the misty hoarfrost.
Something felt strange in the air about his old haunt. Alfwread plodded along in his oil-tanned boots towards the gnarled grey roots of the oak, and stooped down for a stick, just in case. As he crept closer, a hand appeared out of the mist and snatched the stick away.
“Oh! It is only a Halfling,” Parnard breathed out in a quivering voice, and with a laugh tossed the stick aside. “I am unsure which of us was startled more! I can see from your amazed look that I am the first Elf you have ever laid eyes upon! Or is it that the reduced circumstances of the High Lord Parnard, son of Teludar, brought so low, evokes such dismay that you are stunned into silence, and…and…” he trailed off, losing his train of thought as his roving eyes settled upon the greasy satchel slung over the hobbit’s shoulder.
When his shock subsided, Alfwread thought to run away; but there was nothing stern or imposing about the curious stranger, so he remained there, motionless and open-mouthed. The unlikely pair continued to stare at one another: the rustic hobbit, in his wide-brimmed floppy hat, coarse spun garb, and big brown boots; and the skinny, disheveled elf wearing a long black velvet surtout that was shredded to rags along its back edge, his hair unkempt and blowing in the breeze (for he had undone the braids as soon as he could, hating the memory of the Sorceress Zairaphel’s touch) until a ominous rumbling sound, like that of distant thunder, was heard. Parnard made an apologetic grimace and clutched at his side. Not taking his eyes off the elf, Alfwread fished around in his satchel, drawing out a bundle wrapped in beeswax-soaked cloth, and handed it to him without a word.
As Parnard chomped bacon, watercress, and mustard on wheaten bread, he occasionally swiveled his head in the direction where he thought he had smelled the unmistakable odor of Orc the night before, but saw no trouble; and then every crumb was eaten and profuse thanks were given; he declared the sandwich most delicious, and that “‘appetite is truly the best sauce’.” Now that he had a hearty snack in his belly, he felt somewhat less addled in the brains and more sociable to the hobbit, and he began to converse in earnest, because, as we all know, nothing aids the juices of digestion more than freely flowing conversation.
“Well do I remember making and embroidering an undergarment for myself during the long winter evenings, sitting in my tiny chair beside the fire, whilst my mother worked at her wheel spinning flax into thread.” He smiled, perhaps a little sadly. “How carefully I would craft my wardrobe - so you can see the perplexity I am in, wearing this ludicrous clothing, and a pack of wolves that was hard on my heels did not improve its appearance one bit.”
The hobbit continued to gawk at him in open-mouthed silence, so Parnard nodded his head towards the southwest and said,
“I do not like the look of the ruins** yonder. The whole country along the road is marshy, plump full of quaking bogs - does the mist ever clear from this land, or is it always this misty? Is this river, peradventure, named the ‘Ever-Misty River’?”
Parnard was not quite wrong, for the river Greyflood was once named Gwaithîr, ‘River of Shadow,’ by Númenórian explorers in the Second Age when it once flowed through a vast forest of tall trees that overshadowed its banks. The trees were mostly gone, chopped down for ships, and the tall men from across the Sea had almost completely drained the reedy fens of Nîn-in-Eiliph to build their great North-South Road.
He waited for an answer from Alfwread, who had brought out his stubby clay pipe from a pocket, its bowl sitting empty and neglected in the moist palm of his hand, until the silence stretched out and grew intolerably awkward. “This place beside the ‘Ever-Misty River’ must be called the ‘Pools of Song’, for there is a music in these waters. I rather like that,” he continued politely, lest the hobbit think that he was too critical of his native land (as not very many Hobbits were great wanderers, this was a reasonable presumption). Then he began to explain his presence under the juniper bush by relating the tale of his current predicament, starting the subject at the very beginning, the ill-fated trip to Celondim-town to visit his brother Culufinnel.
While Parnard was speaking, waving his arms around in broad, sweeping gestures, Alfwread scrutinized his excited face, and the more he gazed and listened, the more the elf’s excitement seemed to grow. The hobbit’s village was about twenty miles away, if he took the shortcut through the marshes. It would be hard to see the guiding wands in the gathering mist. He furrowed his brow and frowned, sucking two large front teeth over his bottom lip as Parnard talked and talked and talked.
“I had lost my sword, armour, and the rest - lost it? No, robbed of it, I meant to say! That rascally dwarf stole my property and ran away with it...”
At length Alfwread started up, inspired, and opening his leather satchel again, pulled out a small wooden board and his inkwell and brush, and got busy.
“I was so annoyed, so vexed, by that woman’s persecution, that my blood was up; I thought it best to put an end to it once and for all; so I took up the dessert knife and skewered her. But then one of the men told me Cousin Danel is safe, and not burnt up in the fire! Do not mistake me, I have no regrets stabbing that woman, but I ask you this, Halfling: should I believe the words of an evil Servant of Angmar, or not?” His tale concluded, Parnard flung his silvery black hair back, and stared at Alfwread, eyes bright and unblinking, as if defying him to remain silent.
“Ooo wee,” said the hobbit.
“Yes,” Parnard replied with a grave nod, “‘Ooo wee’, indeed.”
Alfwread added a short length of string: the final touch, and his work complete, he showed it to the stranger, making impatient motions that he should secure the thing around his neck.
“Is this a gift for me?” On the wooden placard, painted in bold red letters, was a script unfamiliar to the Wood-elf. Some sort of crude talisman best to accept and avoid offense, he thought, and slipped it over his head. The hobbit seemed relieved by this action, and motioned to him to remain there, assuring him with various gestures that he would return soon, and with more food.
*: Cardolan
**: Tharbad
