Musical Interpretation by Erulisse

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Chapter 1

A shrill whistle pierced the air. Nerdanel clapped her hands to her ears, barely suppressing a shudder.

 

“He’s at it again,” she called out through the kitchen archway. “I have bread rising and sauces that need careful nursing or they’ll break. One more screech from that bone pipe of his and dinner will be ruined. Take him with you to the forge today.”

 

Fëanáro walked into the eating area, distractedly sorting through papers clutched in his hands. “Hmmm? Sorry dear, you were saying?” He reached out to the fruit bowl and picked an apple which he started to polish against his tunic.

 

“He’s going with you today. In fact, the sooner the better.“ Striding quickly to the split doorway of the kitchen, she looked over at the kitchen garden. Her son stood in the middle of the herbs next to a small fountain of her own design. He was fingering a polished chicken bone, measuring where to position another hole in the tube. “Maglor, your father wants your company in the forge today. Come inside; grab your leather tunic and a piece of fruit for later.”

 

The child raised his head and nodded distractedly, then returned his attention to the bone in his small hand.

 

“Oh, for goodness sake. Go out there and get him, Fëanáro. He’s totally lost in his task and my ears can’t take more of that piercing sound. Go, the both of you. Stay away until Mingling.”

 

Her husband sighed and walked out to his second son, the requested leather tunic draped across his arm, an extra apple in his side pocket. “You’re with me today, youngling. Let’s walk out this way so that your mother doesn’t get any more upset than she already is. She's having a harder time as she comes closer to bearing your new brother or sister, so we'll let her rest and give her some quiet for a few marks.”

 

He reached his hand down and clasped his son's as they walked through the outer gate, closing it firmly behind them. Resuming their walk toward the forge in the distance, he turned his attention back to his youngest son. “What are you making from that chicken bone?”

 

“A flute to play music, Atar. Listen!” He pulled back his hand and blew several strident notes through the hollow bone. He then handed it to his father.

 

Fëanáro stuffed his papers beneath his belt and raised the flute to his eye level. Examining it carefully, he nodded approvingly.

 

“This is not badly done, Maglor, but tell me. Why have you made a flute from a chicken bone? Why not just ask me for a length of tubing from the forge instead?”

 

“But Atar, the sound would be different. The bone paints each note with touches of orange, but metal makes a blue color.” Fëanáro looked quizzically at his youngest son as Maglor took back the flute, fingering it silently for a moment and looking dejectedly at the pathway. “Ammë doesn’t like its sound, though," he said softly. "I must do better; I don’t want to make her upset.”

 

“No, that wouldn’t be kind, and you are a kind child, aren’t you my Maglor?” Fëanáro asked, picking up his son and nuzzling his neck, causing the child to cry out with laughter. He opened the side door to his workshop, located at the far end of the forge. "Put your leather tunic on before you enter the forge, son. You can watch, but remember not to bother the smiths while they are working." Sitting down at his drafting table, he quickly lost himself in his latest project.

 

Bored, Maglor left his father’s workshop, entering the large, busy room of the forge. A cacophony of sound assaulted the ears of the young elf, and he hesitated in the entryway, clapping his hands over his ears, his eyes wide as they took in the activity throughout the large circular room. Fascinated by the activity, he walked slowly around, looking in all directions, his hands returning to clutching his bone flute as he walked around.

 

Each pair of smiths shared a single anvil, their hammers rising and falling, striking against the hardened surface as they shaped the heat-softened metal to their command. Apprentices worked the bellows, blowing air into channels below the coals and keeping them red hot to keep the metal malleable. The bellows circled a central area that was open to the sky. A raised secondary roof kept storms away from the coals while still allowing smoke to rise.

 

Each anvil was dedicated to a specific item - shaping bowls and plates at one, pulling and sharpening nails and other hardware for building at a second. Several jewelers sat near the coals, forming their own small group. They shared two shorter iron tables upon which they formed delicate filigree and cast gold items. Several jewelers were using mouth-operated torches to heat specific parts of their designs. Torques, bracelets and other completed items sparkling with gold, gems and glass were accumulating on a cloth.

 

The final four anvils were solely for making blades -knives used for hunting or smaller versions used for dining. Red-hot blades thrust into containers of oil, the heat of the blades caused flames to burst upward with a whoosh sound. Foot-powered grinders showered sparks as they shaped the metal into final forms and profiles, and files scraped along the edges, sharpening them. In a far corner stood shelving containing unique woods and bone for use as handles as well as rare gems, often used in the hilts as decoration.

 

Maglor was transfixed by the orchestrated symphony of sound and movement taking place in front of him. He forgot that the discordant sounds hurt his ears, turning his attention to the whole instead of the individual components. His hand began moving in an unconscious rhythm, mirroring the alternating beats of the nearest pair of smiths. A smile came across the child’s face as he watched them shape the metal before returning it to the coals to re-heat. He began to lose himself in the unusual music.

 

Raising the bone flute to his lips, he began to play, watching notes of orange moving sinuously around the sharp shapes of blue and purple hammer blows. His flute was soft at first, but as the child lost himself in the music, his melody became louder and more confident. The smiths smiled and fell into a rhythm with the musician. Soon, a syncopated beat had rippled across the forge - hammers, files, flames and bellows - all working in harmony, joined together by the sprightly tones of a young elf blowing into a chicken bone that he had carefully shaped and polished.

 

Fëanáro came to the door of his workshop. "Maglor? What are you doing, my son?"

 

The child pulled the flute from his lips and turned to face his father. "Did you see, Atar? It was so beautiful. The colors moved in waves, twisting and turning around each other. I put yellow, orange and red into the blue and purple of the anvil, and the bellows added a layer of green underneath everything."

 

"I saw no colors, my son," Fëanáro said, shaking his head. "But I heard your flute soar above the hammers and it seemed filled with joy and song. I am sorry that I cannot see the colors of your music as you do."

 

"If I ever meet Lord Manwë, I could ask him to let you see the music."

 

"Nay, my boy. Gifts are given to each elf as Eru sees fit. I may not see your music, but I can hear it and that's gift enough." He walked to his son and picked him up, hugging him firmly.

 

"I had hopes that you would follow my path and work in the forge, but you are my rebel - a musician who creates with sound instead of metal. Later, when we return home, we will tell your mother about how you hear music with color. Perhaps she has heard of such a thing before. In any case, I'm sure she will look with more favor upon your playing when she realizes that the making of sound will be your skill."

 

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Compiler's Note: In "The Legends of the House of Finwë" is a notation that shortly before the exile Maglor composed a work entitled "Forge". Dedicated to his father, it used an anvil, two smiths, and a bellows, along with more familiar instruments. The composition is still accounted as one of his Masterworks.

 

 

Chapter End Notes

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