Strangers in a Strange Land by My blue rose

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Chapter Two: Destination

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Chapter Two: Destination

“And in that time also, which songs call Nurtalë Valinóreva, the Hiding of Valinor, the Enchanted Isles were set, and all the seas about them were filled with shadows and bewilderment. And these isles were strung as a net in the Shadowy Seas from the north to the south, before Tol Eressëa, the Lonely Isle, is reached by one sailing west. Hardly might any vessel pass between them, for in the dangerous sounds the waves sighed forever upon dark rocks shrouded in mist. And in the twilight a great weariness came upon mariners and a loathing of the sea; but all that ever set foot upon the islands were there entrapped, and slept until the Change of the World.” ~ The Silmarillion, Quenta Silmarillion

6th of Víresse in the Year 3316 of the Second Age, King’s Reckoning:

Abârôn awoke to the sound of Avalôbêl singing an old sailor’s hymn from the galley.

"Eternal Father, strong to save, whose arm hath bound the restless wave.

Who bids the mighty ocean deep its own appointed limits keep.

O hear us when we cry to Thee, for those in peril on the Sea!"

He got out of bed and left the cabin, smoothing his sleep-rumpled tunic. The galley was filled with light from the open hatches above and Abârôn squinted, turning his head to and fro, attempting to find the Sun so he could see what time it was. He was pleased to see that the ship was not pitching like yesterday, meaning that he was unlikely to be seasick today. He was about to ascend the ladder when he was interrupted by Avalôbêl, whom was stirring a kettle over the stove.

“Sit down, lad, and I will get you some breakfast.” Avalôbêl proceeded to ladle a wooden bowl full of steaming soup, and this he set on the table, along with a plate that held raisin cakes.

“Why did you not wake me?” Abârôn demanded, as he had found the Sun and discovered it was nearly midday. He should have been up long ago to help Lord Azruzôr steer the ship and Avalôbêl should have been sleeping after a long night of the same.

“You will see when you go up,” Avalôbêl’s voice was dark. Abârôn made to climb the ladder, intending to see what his mentor was on about.

“Not now boy! You can go up after you have eaten. I noticed you did not have any soup last night. You are thin enough as it is. Sit,” He gestured to a chair, “And break your fast.”

Abârôn sat, wanting to go topsides but knowing better than to argue with Avalôbêl when he was in this sort of temper. He ate swiftly, barely tasting the excellent soup and sweet raisin cakes. He then went to the corner of the galley and drank from the water barrel. When he had finally satisfied Avalôbêl that was he was not going to perish from either hunger or thirst, Abârôn was allowed to ascend the ladder. Emerging from below, he was astonished to see both the fore and aft sails reefed but the wind was light—far lighter than it had been the day before.

Why, then, were the sails furled as if in high wind?

He looked about and his stomach clenched, fear racing down his spine. The Azrukarbu was surrounded by islands off both her port and starboard sides, and all beyond that was shrouded in thick fog. Abârôn peered over the top strake and saw that the water was deep, but with so many islands they were surely surrounded by hidden reefs. Strangely, the ship seemed to be moving swiftly through the water, much faster than should be possible with the weak wind and her sails trimmed so.

Abârôn made his way astern to where Lord Amânzîr and Lord Azruzôr were standing. Lord Azruzôr was shirtless once more and he leaned casually against the tiller, but his eyes that looked out at the islands were uncharacteristically worried.  Lord Amânzîr was still wearing his dark blue tunic, standing erect, arms crossed. He gazed ahead into the fog, eyes inscrutable, face grim. Abârôn gave a perfunctory bow and Amânzîr’s face softened as he asked, “How do you fare, lad?”

“Well, Bârhên. How long have we been…?” Abârôn trailed off, not knowing how to describe what was happening.

Amânzîr understood what he was trying to ask. “Since daybreak, not long after the Sun rose. We are caught in a strong current, it seems, and we have been unable to maneuver out of it.”

Azruzôr snorted derisively. “This is no current, Uncle. What current steers a ship carefully around islands, even against the wind? This,” he pointed to the Sea, “is magic. Someone is leading us like a horse on a halter.”

“Should we not drop anchor?” Abârôn asked, tentatively.

“We attempted that earlier but all it accomplished was to slow us down by a few knots,” Azruzôr said sourly. It greatly galled the man to have his beloved ship out of his control.

“If this current keeps we should reach shore before nightfall,” Amânzîr stated softly.

“Then we can but hope whomever is doing this does not intend to dash us to pieces against the rocks,” Azruzôr replied darkly, gripping the tiller tightly.

The ship’s course altered slightly to avoid a large rock off the portside as the three Men stared silently into the fog.

It was a little before noon when they emerged from the islands and fog. The four of them stood on the deck, gazing West. At first, Abârôn did not understand what he was seeing. Far ahead, instead of the horizon, it appeared as if the ocean became a wall that blocked out the sky. As they grew closer Abârôn craned his neck, but could see naught but the clouds that wreathed the great wall. He wondered aloud if perhaps they had come to the end of the Earth and that this was the boundary that kept the water from spilling over the edge.

Lord Azruzôr laughed at this and said that the world was round like an apple, and then spent some time cheerfully disparaging the lad’s tutors whom had failed to instruct him in such things. Lord Amânzîr informed them that the wall was truly a mountain range, called the Pelóri, which ran along the eastern shores of Aman. The mysterious current only grew swifter now that they were free of the islands. Noon came and passed, and they forwent the midday meal, as none of them truly felt much like eating.

Soon they were close enough to the shore that Abârôn could make out the individual peaks of the Pelóri, and they shortly came to a strait between what must be Aman and Tol Eressëa. They had entered a large bay when the ship, which had been heading north, veered west, straight toward the shore. From here they could see where the mountain range disappeared for a span and continued the other side, leaving a gap through which a river ran. Lord Amânzîr said this was the Calacirya, and that they must pass through it when they landed.

The bay was curiously empty. It was a fair day, even with the poor wind, and Abârôn thought there should be Elves fishing in the waters, or at least gathering shellfish and sea lettuce along the shore. On the strand they could see small boats that had been hauled out, yet the bay and the coast were deserted. Abârôn realized that he had thought they would perish ere they reached the shore, and marveled that they had been allowed to come this far. Their ship ran aground smoothly on the white sand of its own accord, listing to her portside as she settled.

“We will never get her off the beach, not with her draft! She was never meant to go ashore,” Azruzôr lamented, surveying his ship with dismay.

“It is unlikely that we will need her to be moved off shore,” Amânzîr said quietly to his nephew, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Go put your good tunic on. I wish us to depart as soon as possible. There is likely to be a long walk ahead of us.”

It was then that Avalôbêl noticed a figure striding out of the water next to the ship and onto the shore. At first he thought it was a Man, but as the figure turned to face them he thought it must be an Elf, for he was the fairest being Avalôbêl had ever seen. He was as taller than Lord Amânzîr’s son, Lord Nimruzîr, and his long hair was silver. It was not the grey of old age, as was Avalôbêl’s own hair, but the truly the same color as the metal. His eyes were also a queer shade, the lightest of blues, like mountain ice. The stranger smiled and waved to them from the beach.

“Hail and well met! I am Salmar, servant of Ulmo, and I bid you welcome to the shores of Aman.” His Adûnaic sounded as if he had been born and raised in Númenór, but there was a strange lyrical quality to his voice, as if he was more used to singing than talking. The strangest thing about him, aside from his coloring, was that although he had just walked out of the Sea, he did not appear to be wet. Even the tunic he wore—iridescent as an abalone shell—was dry, as was his belt, made of strands of pearls.

“Well met. I am Amânzîr Adûnazîrthôr, Lord of Andûnië. This is my nephew, Bâr Azruzôr Azrutarikthôr. These are my servants Avalôbêl Zôrzîrthôr and Abârôn Zimradthôr,” Amânzîr said, bowing from where he stood near the prow of the ship.

Because they had run aground, there was some difficulty disembarking. Abârôn scrambled down the portside of the ship like a bilge rat. Lord Azruzôr simply leapt from the top strake into the surf, soaking himself and the scarlet tunic he had only just donned. Lord Amânzîr assisted in lowering Avalôbêl to the ground, much to his embarrassment. Yet Avalôbêl was able to admit that it would have been nigh impossible for him find a way to reach the beach by himself without injury. As it was, he scraped his hands on the barnacles that covered hull.

“She’ll need a new coat of paint. No doubt the sand has striped a good measure off…” Azruzôr muttered to himself, his voice so low as to barely be heard, as he stroked his ship.

“Forgive me, I did not intend to damage your vessel,” Salmar said.

“So you are the one responsible for this?” Azruzôr accused, looking much aggrieved.

“It was necessary. You could not have passed the Islands without my assistance and there is no quay in the Bay of Eldamar. Ships usually dock at Alqualondë but I did not think it prudent to take you north when I knew you would only need to come south again.”

“We are very grateful, Bârhên.” Amânzîr said firmly, giving his nephew a quelling glance.

“I am no lord,” Salmar laughed. “But come, there is a road through the Calacirya that runs parallel to the river.” He pointed to the gap in the mountains. “I will lead you to Tirion. Perhaps from there others may help you.”

“You know why we are here,” Amânzîr said quietly.

Salmar nodded. “Why do you think I aided you? I have spent many yéni in the Bay of Rómenna and in the Bay of Andûnië, observing the doings of the Men of Númenórë. Long have I watched the Men of your House strive against the Shadow and I would fain see you succeed in your quest.”

With that, the five of them set off across the beach toward the river. 

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Chapter End Notes

Glossary

“Eternal Father, Strong to Save”: first verse of a hymn written by William Whiting in 1860.                                                                                                            

“…both the fore and aft sails were reefed”: Reefing is the means of reducing the area of a sail in order to improve a craft's stability and minimize the risk of damage to the sail or boat in a strong wind.

“…said that the world was round like an apple”: I hold to the Round World version of J.R.R. Tolkien's Legendarium, published in the final volumes of The History of Middle-earth. In this version, the setting of his legendarium is more realistic and less mythological: the Earth was always round, and Arda was the name for the whole solar system instead of just the Earth. In the Round World version the stars were not created with the Awakening of the Elves, but the occluding clouds were removed to reveal them. (Although I don’t hold to the Round World idea of the Sun and the Moon not being the fruit of the Two Trees.) The Round World version can be considered the 'real' story behind the text of the Quenta Silmarillion which can be seen as just the legends based on the 'reality', written by the ancient people of Middle-earth. In his last years, Tolkien didn't view his legendarium as having an Elvish origin, but a Mannish one, and thus the legends contained in it could be inaccurate.

Nimruzîr (Adûnaic): ‘Elendil’.

Amânzîr Adûnazîrthôr (Adûnaic): ‘Amânzîr son of Adûnazîr’.

Bâr Azruzôr Azrutarikthôr (Adûnaic): ‘Lord Azruzôr son of Azrutarik’.

Avalôbêl Zôrzîrthôr (Adûnaic): ‘Avalôbêl son of Zôrzîr’.

Abârôn Zimradthôr (Adûnaic): ‘Abârôn son of Zimrad’.

Númenórë (Quenya): ‘Númenór’. This is an older form of the word, reflecting the fact that the Quenya spoken in Aman would sound archaic to a Númenorean speaker.

Yéni (Quenya): a unit of time used by the Elves equivalent to 144 solar years. Singular is ‘Yén’.