Air All Full of Singing by StarSpray

Chapter 1

Read Chapter 1

april is a dog’s dream
the soft grass is growing
the sweet breeze is blowing
the air all full of singing feels just right
so no excuses now
we're going to the park
to chase and charge and chew
and i will make you see
what spring is all about

- “April is a Dog’s Dream” by Marilyn Singer

 

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School letting out for summer holidays was usually the best time of the year, for it meant that Michael (that was Little Boy Two’s name, and Roverandom could not call him Little Boy Two forever) and his brothers were free again to spend all day running around the garden or up and down the beach, having adventures—with Roverandom always with them, of course. However, this year the start of summer holidays brought with it an invitation from an aunt and uncle and gaggle of cousins to take all three boys to Greece for several weeks of exploring ancient ruins, visiting museums, and basking in the Mediterranean sun. Michael and his brothers were terribly excited about this, and in the days leading up to their departure the small house was a whirlwind of activity and shouting and preparation.

Only Roverandom was not excited or pleased. He lay on the hearthrug with his head on his paws, watching everyone race around looking for lost socks and the youngest boy’s favorite hat. Roverandom was not going to Greece. Even if he could have boarded the airplane, Aunt was afraid of dogs, and one of the cousins was allergic.

On the morning of departure, Michael knelt and threw his arms around Roverandom’s neck and covered his head and face with kisses. “I will miss you, Roverandom!” he said. “But I’ll be back before you know it. Be good while I’m gone, and don’t have too many adventures without me!” Roverandom licked Michael all over his face, and trotted out to the car after him, and sat in the lane watching the horizon long after it disappeared into the distance.

He was still there when Father returned from seeing the boys off. “Come along, Roverandom,” he said as he got out of the car. “You’ll have to take your walk with me today.” He knelt down and scratched Roverandom behind the ears. When he got up again, Roverandom huffed a soft sigh, and got up to follow. They did not go down to the beach, but back along the lane, to the closest neighbor’s cottage. It was much like their own, only smaller, for only an old man lived in it. He was tending to the flowers along his front walk when Roverandom and Father came up, and his dog—a black-furred poodle named Lancelot—was sniffing around the hedges.

“Hullo, Roverandom!” said Lancelot as Roverandom trotted up to for the usual greeting-sniffs. “Where’s your boy?”

“He’s gone off to Greece,” said Roverandom glumly.

“Ah, lucky him.”

“Not so lucky for me,” said Roverandom. “His brothers are gone too, and it’s only me and Mother and Father in the house. And I can’t go down to visit old Psathamos, because last time I accidentally ruined one of his spells and he told me next time I bothered him he’d turn be back into a toy.” Psathamos of course had not really meant it, but Roverandom was not well enough acquainted with him just yet to know that such threats were empty ones. So he was determined to avoid the cove until the old sand sorcerer was not so angry anymore, though he did not know how long that would be.

“There are other places to go,” said Lancelot. “We can go into the village, if you like. There won’t be much in the way of magic, but it’s been a good while since I went to down and had the latest news. How about this afternoon?”

They agreed to meet again at Roverandom’s cottage in a few hours’ time, and Roverandom departed with Father, going home to spend the rest of the morning dozing in the sunlit garden while Mother pulled weeds and muttered about the bugs eating her cabbages. He dreamed of chasing moonbeams with the moon-Rover, until he heard a different woof from down the lane. He left Mother to her cabbages and went off with Lancelot to the village.

It was a leisurely walk, as the road passed by other cottages and through fields and pastures. A small herd of cows paused in their grazing to watch the pair of dogs trot by. The village itself, a comfortable cluster of houses and shops, was busy with the beginnings of summer. Families on holiday were flocking to the inns, and the children no longer in school chased each other through the streets or gathered in each other’s gardens to play games.

The other dogs were out as well. Lancelot and Roverandom met grey-nosed Wilfred outside his owner’s candy shop, and as they sniffed at one another and at the signpost to learn who had been by recently, they were joined by a pair of pups newly arrived with their owners from London. They were tiny things, Yorkshire Terriers named Fred and Ginger. It was a cheerful group of dogs that made its way to the village square, where Ginger said someone had come to play marvelous music.

As they approached the people gathered to listen to the performance (which was quite marvelous, not like any music Roverandom had heard even in the mer-king’s palace), Roverandom caught a whiff of something that was almost familiar. He’d smelled it before, but he couldn’t remember where. Closer, he could smell definite hints of magic. “Is that a wizard?” he asked Lancelot and Wilfred, as they finally got through the forest of legs, with Fred and Ginger darting easily ahead of them.

“You would know better than any of us,” said Wilfred. He sat down a bit stiffly on the cool grass near the bench that the musician had claimed for himself. Wilfred was a very old dog, and a bit arthritic, though that did not stop him from taking an interest in things around town. When Fred and Ginger darted over to climb over him and nip at his ears, Lancelot growled and snapped at them until they retreated to the grass.

Roverandom ignored the pups and looked at the musician. He was playing a flute, though he also had a guitar case by his feet. Michael’s older brother was taking flute lessons, and Roverandom usually fled to the beach when he practiced, but this was beautiful. And there was definitely magic in it. Just a bit, and of a different flavor than Artaxerxes’ or Psathamos’s. The musician himself played with his eyes closed, focused entirely on his music. His fingers were long and nimble, and his hair was long as well, curled and dark and tumbling loose around his shoulders. It would have been remarked on by the villagers with disapproval, if they could have taken any notice. They would have looked askance at his clothing as well, which was well-worn and a bit stained, and in some places threadbare or frayed. And the way he smelled! It was not like regular people. There was dirt and sweat of course, and hints of bits of food that had stained his trousers at some time, but beneath all of that he just smelled different . Roverandom cocked his head and watched him until the song finished and he lowered his flute.

He opened his eyes, and those were different too, like there was a light behind them, rather than the sunlight just being reflected. He smiled at the applause, and accepted with quiet thanks the coins that dropped into the floppy hat that he’d set on the ground beside the bench.

“That was quite nice,” remarked Wilfred as the crowd began to disperse. “Don’t get wandering musicians around here much.”

Fred and Ginger had been wrestling together for the last several minutes; now they got up and ran over to sniff at and tug on the poor musician’s trousers. Fred managed to tear one of the legs rather audibly. Roverandom darted over to swat them away. “Don’t you know better than to bite a magician’s trousers?” he asked. “He’ll turn you into something unpleasant if you don’t apologize straight away, young pup!”

Fred shrank down into the grass, ears going flat, but the musician laughed softly and leaned down to scratch him gently behind the ears. “It’s all right,” he said in a gentle voice. “You needn’t fear; I’m not a magician, and I won’t turn anyone into anything.”

Ginger sat down in surprise at a human person responding to something a dog had really said, instead of what the human person wanted to think the dog had said. It was unheard of. And of course neither Fred nor Ginger had known very many humans yet, let alone magicians, as they were still tiny puppies. Lancelot and Wilfred both sat down and tilted their heads, a bit surprised themselves. Lancelot claimed to have sniffed out Psathamos before, but neither he nor Wilfred had any experience up close with real magicians.

The musician said nothing else to them. Once he scratched Fred behind the ears, and did the same for Ginger, he gathered up his hat with its clinking coins, and put away his flute, and wandered away from the square himself.

A child’s voice called out for Fred and Ginger then, as the square emptied out and the village returned to its usual business. “All right, pups,” said Wilfred. He scratched himself stiffly, and got to his feet. “Let’s get you on home, then. Goodbye, Lancelot, Roverandom. Don’t get into any trouble, now.”

As Wilfred and the pups trotted away, Fred and Ginger scampering around and getting underneath poor old Wilfred’s feet, Roverandom remained sitting by the bench, watching the musician until he disappeared around the corner by the butcher shop. He scratched at an ear, turning the musician’s scent over in his nose. “Not a magician, he says,” he remarked to Lancelot. “And I suppose he’s right. He doesn’t smell much like Artaxerxes—not that Artaxerxes smelled like much of anything except salt and seaweed when I last saw him—or Psathamos, or any other magician that I’ve met.” Certainly not the Man-in-the-Moon, who always smelled faintly of smoke. And there had been that much less powerful wandering conjurer that had passed through town the autumn before, stopping to entertain at a birthday party that Michael and his brothers had attended before moving on.

“Do they have a particular smell?” Lancelot asked. “Normal people all smell different.”

“Well, yes,” said Roverandom. “They do. I think it’s the magic. But he doesn’t quite have it. It’s like lemon instead of orange, you see?”

“Do they smell like fruit?” Lancelot cocked his head. “I didn't’ smell that on him. There was a fresh, sweet sort of smell, like a morning breeze off the snow in a field, but nothing like lemon.”

“No, no. You smelled what I did,” Roverandom said. “And it’s only like the difference between lemons and oranges, see? Not that they actually smell like fruit.”

“Oh. I suppose,” Lancelot said, in a doubtful tone that suggested he really did not. Roverandom sighed. He missed the moon-Rover, and the mer-dog. They understood about magic and things. They might even know what the musician really was. But the moon-Rover had visited only a few months ago, in the early spring when they had spent a week romping about in the mud together chasing rabbits and playing fetch with Michael and his brothers, and it would be a good long while before the Man-in-the-Moon would take the fancy to send him back. And the mer-dog Roverandom had last seen the day before he angered Psathamos, and he had spoken of going on a good long journey with some mer folk all the way to the other end of the world.

That left Roverandom alone to solve the puzzle, since none of the other village dogs were interested, or were too young, like Fred and Ginger. He remembered very well how frightening it had been to be a fairy toy dog, and the little Yorkie pups were only slightly larger than that—much too small to go on any adventures, and anyway their child would miss them. Lancelot said goodbye and trotted off to his own home for dinner, and Roverandom watched him go. He himself was not particularly hungry, and he was not eager to return to his home in any case; it was too quiet and empty with the boys gone away. And Mother and Father wouldn’t worry very much; they were used to him going off roving.

So after Lancelot was gone, Roverandom got up and followed the musician. His trail was easy to pick up and to keep; it was that odd scent of his—a little like fresh air over snow, as Lancelot had said. It lingered, like the smell of the scented candles Mother sometimes burned, that filled the whole house with warm smells for hours. Roverandom loped along, pausing occasionally to make sure he was still going in the right direction. He expected to end up at the inn, with its pub on the ground floor, or at the other pub whose sign was peeling paint, and smelled less pleasant. But the trail went past both places, heading out of the village, and inland toward the fields. Beyond the fields was a wood, a dark green line on the horizon. Roverandom had not yet visited it; he was content to romp in the open, and to explore the myriad coves and tide pools up and down the shore, and the boys were not supposed to go that far from home by themselves.

Now he found himself following a path between some fields, each one bordered by a dry stone wall. He could see over them if he rose up on his hind legs, which he did every so often, in case the musician was cutting across the fields, and he could follow by a shorter way. But he never saw him—only the wheat and beans and potatoes growing in the fields, and the occasional flock of birds that was startled into flight by his sudden appearance over the wall. It was quiet, except for the birds calling to one another, and the occasional rustle of a field mouse through the grass, and the buzzing of insects busy doing whatever it was that insects did. There were lots of interesting smells, but Roverandom mostly ignored those; his curiosity about the musician was stronger than his curiosity about what lived in that little hole just at the bottom of the wall.

Eventually, the path came to a crossroads. Until this, the path had been going along the wood, rather than towards it, keeping fields between the low wall and the trees. There was a post by the road with signs pointing in different directions, with the names of villages and the distance to them; several were in need of repainting. Roverandom spent a few minutes sniffing at the signpost, before leaving his own mark on it, as was only polite. One of the new paths went straight toward the wood, and it was this path that the musician had taken. Roverandom trotted along it. Bluebells and daisies bobbed their heads in the grass on either side of the track; a robin with its bright red breast perched on the wall watched Roverandom pass by, its head cocked and its little eyes bright with curiosity of its own. “Where are you going then, dog?” it asked, hopping along the stones.

“To the forest,” said Roverandom as he stopped to sniff about the track. “Did you see a man go by a little while ago?”

“Oh, you mean the wanderer,” chirped the robin. “The ancient sad singer, you mean? The one with the voice that’s like the sea, you mean?”

Roverandom stopped and sat down. “What do you mean, ancient and sad?” he asked. The musician had laughed and smiled at little Fred and Ginger, and had not seemed sad to Roverandom. “How ancient? Is he a magician, then? A sorcerer like Psathamos or the Man-in-the-Moon?”

“He’s one of the Star People. One of the Elves that came back to the world longer ago than there was a moon, you know, or a Man to live in it, you know.” The robin hopped back and forth on the stone. “There’s lots of them still here, you know, the ones that never left. But he’s the only one that came back and stayed and stayed, while the others sailed back away over the Sea.”

“Oh,” said Roverandom. He sat down and scratched an ear thoughtfully. “Thank you,” he said to the robin. “I didn’t know any of that. Can you tell me where he went?”

“Into the woods, he went,” sang the robin. “Lots of Star People like the woods, they do. They come sometimes to dance and feast and sing, they do. And the River there is, and her daughter, and old Tom, that’s older than old, he is.”

“Older than old!” exclaimed Roverandom. “Robin, now you’re talking nonsense.” But as much sense as he’d already gotten from the little bird was as much as you could really expect. Birds were only seriously concerned with a handful of things, and when they were not finding mates, or building nests, or hunting for food to feed themselves and their babies, they twittered and chattered about nothing at all, and it was quite impossible to have a real conversation that lasted more than a minute with one. Though if you were patient, they were an excellent source of woodland gossip, for they saw nearly everything that went on from their perches high in the canopy, though sometimes they mistook which bits were the important ones.

Roverandom went on, and after following him for a little while longer, the robin trilled a short song and fluttered away, going on ahead into the trees. It was getting on in the afternoon now, the warmest part of the day when the sun was bright and golden, just before the shadows started to get long. Roverandom was glad to reach the shade of the trees; he was panting, and his paws were starting to get sore. He hadn’t gone on a long walk like that in a very long time. He sniffed around, and found off the woodland path a little ways a small river flowing along merrily, winking in the dappled sunlight. The bed was all smooth pebbles, and the water felt good on Roverandom’s paws, and tasted even better. He drank his fill and lay on the grassy bank to rest a while.

He didn’t mean to, but he found himself so comfortable in the soft shade that he fell asleep. When he woke up it was evening; the stars were coming out as purple twilight settled like a soft blanket over the world. Roverandom yawned and stretched his legs out in front of him before having another drink and finding a suitable tree to mark. There were many interesting smells to sort through as he did so—badgers lived nearby, and a fox had come through earlier that day, or perhaps the evening before. Not to mention the rabbits and squirrels that scampered about all day.

But the squirrels would have to wait. Roverandom made his way back to the path, where he picked up the musician’s scent once again. As he started off again, Roverandom thought he could hear faint music in the distance, deep in the wood just on the edge of even a dog’s hearing. He trotted on.

It grew dark quickly in the wood—and the darkness was deeper than the darkness in the fields or on the beach, because the trees blocked the starlight and the moonlight except in little silvery patches. Before long the birds had all gone to sleep, so the only sounds were of branches moving in the soft breeze, or the rustling of nighttime creatures going about their business. An owl hooted from the branches of a tall tree before swooping low over Roverandom’s head on silent wings, going off to start the night’s hunting. The music in the distance went on, growing gradually louder as Roverandom continued down the path. It reminded him a little of the revels in the mer-king’s palace, or of Psathamos’ parties, but in the way that grey paint might remind one of real shining silver.

That is not to say that the mer folk did not make fair music—they made the loveliest music that Roverandom had ever heard until that evening. It was just that this music was—well, more . The joy was deeper, the sadness (when there was sadness, which was seldom) more poignant, the tunes themselves (though Roverandom did not know it yet) older than even the moon.

There was more than one flute playing, and also harps and drums and fiddles and guitars, and other instruments, but Roverandom never learned which ones, for as he walked along, sniffing as he went, the music swelled—and stopped.

Roverandom stopped too. It was utterly silent and still; even the breeze had died down. He sat down on the path, now feeling rather uncertain. Father had read a story to the boys recently that warned against leaving the path in a strange wood. Roverandom had not remembered before, when he went to find the river, but it seemed like very good advice now in the dark. Except he wondered now what was to stop frightening things from coming onto the path with him.

Now dogs cannot see as well in the dark as cats can, and though their senses of smell and hearing do a great deal to make up for it, Roverandom’s head was too filled with thoughts of the monsters in Father’s stories to think of going much farther that night. Perhaps he should have just remained by that clear stream—that had been a clean and wholesome place. But he did not think he could find it again now in the dark. So, hoping that going just a little bit off of the path would not bring any trouble, Roverandom found an old tree with gnarled roots risen out of the ground just enough to make a dog-sized hollow at the base of the trunk, and there he curled up in a bed of fallen leaves. For a long time he just lay there, tense and ready to leap up with his hackles raised should something unpleasant come along. But nothing did, and eventually Roverandom fell asleep.

He was woken quite suddenly when something jerked him up off the ground. Roverandom tried to twist around and bite at whatever was holding him, but his jaws closed on something sticky and bitter-tasting, with a texture like rope, if rope was coated in glue. Then he tried to bark, but now the sticky rope was stuck in his mouth and he could do no more than whimper. Something skittered over his head and he thought he heard something like high thin laughter, and then he was being carted up and away like a sack of potatoes. He could see a little bit through the strands that were wrapped around his face, just enough to tell that he was being carried away through the trees, with the forest floor passing by beneath him, and branches flashing across his vision and occasionally smacking into him.

Once he was properly awake it did not take Roverandom long to recognize the musty smell of the sticky cords—they were spider webs, of course. But they belonged to spiders far larger than should have been found in an English wood—they were as big, or perhaps even bigger, than the horrid black spiders on the dark side of the moon. Roverandom tried even harder to free himself, but that only made it worse.

Eventually they stopped slinging him along, and he found himself hung from a branch, his paws dangling over the dark forest floor. The spiders skittered away; he could hear them talking to each other in hissing, chittering sort of voices, though he could not quite make out the words. He kicked and squirmed, even knowing it wouldn’t do anything. And indeed all that it got him was an occasional painful poke with a pointy spider leg.

The spiders did not bite him, however. Roverandom was not quite sure why. He knew that spiders had venom in their bites—Mother had gotten a spider bite last spring, and her leg had swollen up and she’d had to go to hospital—and he assumed it was important when it came to catching and killing their prey. Or perhaps these spiders did not need to bite their prey. They were so big that they could just tie it up and leave it to die of hunger or thirst, though when he thought about it that didn’t make much sense either, because all they would have left would be the skin and bones.

Or maybe they did not intend to eat him at all. The spiders’ voices were cruel sounding, and their laughter made his hackles rise. Maybe they were just cruel and evil creatures that liked to hurt things, like one of the boys Michael and his brothers did not like at school because he thought it was funny to throw rocks at stray dogs and cats. That thought was not comforting. In fact it was worse than merely being eaten.

Oh, if only he had gone home with Lancelot, instead of following the elf musician! He could be asleep on Michael’s bed at that very moment, missing him and feeling lonely but at least warm and safe and miles away from any spider larger than a coin. And now he was far from home and far from help; there were no friendly magicians in this wood who might rescue a silly dog that had gotten himself in trouble, that was nearly certain.

Roverandom was never sure how long he hung there, poked and prodded occasionally but mostly, it seemed, ignored. But at last, after he had very nearly given up hope of escape or rescue, he heard a scuffle somewhere below him, and a voice rang out in the forest speaking words he did not understand, but that made his fur stand on end like when Michael and his brothers rubbed balloons over the carpet and stuck them to his fur. There was a great deal of chittering, and some high-pitched screeching that made Roverandom’s ears hurt, and then someone was right up beside him, sawing away at the webbing. Roverandom kicked and squirmed, eager to be free, and very nearly fell all the way to the forest floor when the web began to give way. His fall was arrested with a painful lurch, before he was more slowly lowered to the ground.

His rescuer cut away the rest of the webbing, pulling it from around his snout and out of his mouth. Roverandom shook himself, but bits of it were still stuck and tangled in his fur. He was going to need a bath, but even that prospect could not quell his relief to be free.

“There you go,” said a familiar voice. Roverandom looked up from trying to lick the taste out of his mouth, finally getting a look at his rescuer—and found that it was the elf musician he had been trying to follow. He knelt in the leaves, brushing bits of web off his hands and wiping clean his knife before sliding it back into its sheath on his belt. “What are you doing all the way out here, boy?” he asked. “Where is your master?” He glanced up as he asked this question, scanning the trees overhead for other unfortunate spider victims.

Roverandom sat down to scratch at some of the webbing still caught in his fur. “Thank you!” he said first, because manners were important. And then he said, “My boy’s gone off to Greece. If there is anyone else caught in the webs, they did not get caught with me.”

The elf glanced back down at him. His eyes were very bright in the gloom, like stars. “Stay here, then,” he said, rising to his feet. He motioned to the ground with his hand and repeated sternly, “Stay.” And then he strode off. Roverandom looked up, but saw no sign of the giant spiders. He could smell them everywhere, but there was no sound after the elf disappeared. He sneezed, and then lay down in the leaves to wait. It felt like he was there alone for a very long time before the elf returned. He was also alone—it seemed there had been no one else to rescue. Roverandom rose to his feet and trotted after the elf back through the woods, until they came to a path, which they followed to the base of a very large tree, bigger than any tree Roverandom had seen before. Acorns and old leaves littered the ground beneath it, and this was where the elf had made a small camp for himself. He tossed some sticks onto still-glowing coals and stoked the fire back to cheerful life, before sitting down and looking at Roverandom.

“Come here,” he said, gesturing as he dug through his rucksack. “You still have webs stuck to your fur.”

Roverandom sat down beside him, and submitted to having his fur combed through. He would still have to suffer a bath later, but he did feel much better once the biggest bits of web and clumps of dirt were out. “What are you doing out here, then, you silly little dog?” the elf asked finally, as he tossed away the last of the webbing. He pulled out a bit of jerky from his rucksack then, and gave it to Roverandom.

“I am not a little dog,” said Roverandom, affronted.

“Well, not as little as those other puppies,” said the elf with a smile, “but you still have some growing to do, I think. And that does not answer my question. It’s a dangerous place to wander at night, this wood.”

“Well, I didn’t know there would be spiders,” said Roverandom. “I thought the big ones were only on the dark side of the moon!” The elf blinked. “Anyway, I was following you. I’ve never met an elf before. You are an elf, aren’t you? The robin said you were, but you never know with robins.”

This made the elf laugh softly. “That does not seem fair to robins,” he said. “Yes, I am an elf, though now I wonder if you are merely a dog!”

“Of course I am,” said Roverandom. “I’ve had a few adventures, that’s all.”

“All the way to the moon!”

“Well, yes. That was Psathamos’ idea.”

“I would like to hear about these adventures, if you would tell me,” said the elf. “But not tonight,” he added, as Roverandom yawned. Roverandom was happy to agree. He curled up beside the fire and pressed against the elf’s side, because he did not want to be alone even a little bit, and was soon fast asleep, with the elf petting him very softly.

When he woke it was just after dawn, the light still pale and dim beneath the trees. The elf had roused the fire once again, and was chewing thoughtfully on a banana as he gazed up at the leaves over their heads. When Roverandom yawned and stretched, he reached over to scratch him behind the ears.

Roverandom spent that morning telling the elf all about his adventures, from being turned into a toy dog by old Artaxerxes, to being dropped on the beach, to flying all the way to the moon with Mew and meeting his boy in a dream on the far side, where the giant spiders blacker than ink lived. He told the elf all about the moon-Rover and the mer-dog, and their adventures with Uin, swimming even all the way to the Bay of Fairyland.

The elf listened intently through the telling. When Roverandom finished, he said, “Roverandom is a good name for you!”

“Thank you,” said Roverandom. He had grown rather fond of it, himself. “But what is your name?”

“I have had many names through these long Ages of the world,” said the elf, “for I am older even than your friend Artaxerxes. But today and in this place, I am Maglor.”

“What are you doing here, Maglor?” Roverandom asked as he watched him clean up the small campsite. “In this part of the world, I mean.”

“Surely you heard them last night,” said Maglor as he fastened his rucksack. “Elves come here sometimes, to exchange news and to sing together and remember times long ago. There are fewer and fewer of us on these shores with each passing decade, and it makes these gatherings all the more important.” He saw how Roverandom’s ears had perked up, and laughed, reaching up to scratch behind them. “Yes, you can come with me. Or else you’ll just try to follow again, and will get into more trouble. Come along. It isn’t far now.”

Roverandom trotted along beside Maglor as he strode down the forest path. Now that he had found his quarry, he was able to give more attention to the rest of the forest. Birds sang to one another cheerfully in the trees overhead, exchanging news and gossip. Somewhere nearby he could hear a sound like soft laughter that was water flowing over stones. Flowers grew among fragrant ferns in little sun-filled glades; once Roverandom glimpsed a deer and her fawns watching them pass by.

At last, they came to a wide clearing filled with sunshine and wildflowers—and elves. They were everywhere, sitting on picnic blankets or lounging in the trees, coming and going with armfuls of firewood or baskets full of berries or other fruits. Some were cooking over fires, and others were playing music on instruments of all kinds and singing songs in languages Roverandom had never heard before, while yet more danced together. There was only a handful of children, but they were all together off to the side throwing a ball around. Roverandom saw two elven women swaying to the music with their babies in slings held against their chests.

“Well met, Maglor!” several of them chorused as Roverandom followed Maglor into the clearing. “Who is your friend?” someone else asked.

“A little Rover for the roving minstrel!” someone else chimed in.

“He isn’t mine,” said Maglor as he dropped his bag down by this last person. “But his name is Roverandom. Well met, Daeron. Still here?”

“Still here,” said the dark-haired elf lounging on a checkered blanket. He wore a loose-fitting t-shirt and jeans that were torn and frayed at the hems, and was absently strumming a ukulele with long slender fingers. “You’re early, this time,” he added. “Even Thranduil has not arrived yet, and so far we’ve seen no sign of old Tom Bombadil, or the River-daughter.”

Roverandom sniffed around the blanket, but looked up at this. “Old Tom, older than old?” he said. “Like the robin said?”

“What robin?” asked Daeron.

“Does it matter?” replied Maglor. He pulled out his guitar and strummed a few chords. “I think Roverandom will be very interested to meet Tom,” he added. “He’s had quite a few adventures. You could make a song of them, Daeron, if you wanted. He’s even seen the far side of the moon.”

Daeron looked very interested. If dogs could blush, Roverandom would have. But Roverandom had told his story once that morning, and it was too long to tell again so soon. He left Maglor and Daeron to debate some song one of them liked and the other hated, and went off to see the other elves. They were all merry and laughing and singing. Some it seemed only saw one another at these gatherings, and Roverandom soon learned that they did not happen very often, at least not by normal people’s standards. Some of them were golden-haired and tall and others sported bright silver braids; many were dark-haired. All of them had eyes that glinted like starlight on still water, even in the daylight.

The elven children were delighted to have a dog to play with, and Roverandom spent the afternoon chasing and being chased, and playing fetch and tug-o-war, and other more imaginative games. One or two of the children he came to realize he had seen before, in the dream-garden of the Man-in-the-Moon. If they remembered him, however, they did not say so.

At last, as it drew toward tea-time, a trumpet rang out somewhere in the forest, and everyone in the clearing rose to their feet, music and laughter fading. Roverandom trotted over to Maglor, who remained near the edges of the crowd, but still with a clear view. Through a gap in the trees, where the branches wove together overhead almost like a leafy archway, strode a large party of elves, all of them smiling and laughing and singing. And at their head was a very tall golden-haired elf with a crown of flowers and leaves on his head. It would have looked silly on anyone else, Roverandom thought, but on this elf it was as regal as any gold or gems would be. The elves in the clearing bowed, but the formalities were short-lived, and soon the music was struck up again and the Elvenking was mingling among his folk almost like anyone else.

“That is King Thranduil,” said Maglor when Roverandom looked up at him. He sat back down again and picked up his guitar. Daeron had gone off somewhere. “He is the last Elvenking remaining in this world.”

Afternoon tea with elves was as delightful for a dog as it would be for a child of Men. Everyone was happy to slip Roverandom little tidbits, and he even lay for a while beside King Thranduil on his picnic blanket, receiving belly rubs and ear scratches. He was enjoying himself so much that he almost did not notice that the greeting between the king and Maglor was much briefer than everyone else’s, and rather stiff. But he did not like to ask Maglor about it, though he stuck close by his side as the tension faded away and the party went on, into the night.

As the stars came out, Daeron was called on to sing a very long song called the Lay of Leithian , which left no dry eyes even among the youngest children by the end. And then Maglor was called to sing something, and he chose to sing a song in praise of Elbereth Gilthoniel, who, he told Roverandom later, had put all of the stars into the sky. There was a lot of teasing through the evening by the other elves as they debated whether Daeron or Maglor had given the better performance. Evidently they were the two most talented singers of all the Elves who had ever lived in Middle-earth. And in fact Daeron had not shied away from the part of the Lay of Leithian that said that he was the mightier singer, raising his chin as he sang the lines and grinning at Maglor, who laughed. Roverandom thought all of the elves had lovely voices, but if sides were to be taken, he was inclined to choose Maglor’s. Maglor had been the first elf he had ever heard sing, after all, and of course Maglor had saved him from the spiders. Roverandom felt a sort of possessive affection for him, in the way that dogs do when they meet someone they like very much. It was not as strong as his feelings about his boy, of course, but it was there all the same.

Roverandom fell asleep long before the music stopped, curled up against Maglor’s legs. When he woke the next morning, it was early enough that the sky was just starting to lighten, and a scattering of stars was visible overhead. He yawned and stretched into the dewy grass. The clearing was still full of elves, though less full than it had been. There were sleeping elves, and elves still awake and talking, though the music had been reduced to a single harp, from which was coming an almost mournful tune. Roverandom lay and listened for a few minutes, before realizing he was very thirsty. As he got up he spotted Maglor under a chestnut tree nearby with the elven children, his face alight and his hands gesturing as he told them a story. It was a very good story, by the looks on their faces, but when Roverandom passed by he realized that it was being told in one of the strange and musical elven languages, so he could not understand it. He went on, following the sound and scent of water to the riverbank.

He came to the water where it opened up and eddied in a calm pool filled with water lilies. Their smell filled the air like the perfume Mother wore on holidays. Roverandom went down to the water’s edge and trotted in. The river bottom was sandy, with the occasional water-smoothed pebble, and it was deliciously cool, for the morning was already growing warm.

As Roverandom finished drinking his fill, movement caught his attention across the bank. He looked up to find a woman standing waist-deep in the water. She had risen out of it, not waded in, for her long golden hair was dripping as she ran a comb through it, though it seemed much drier in the moments it took her to wade across to Roverandom. “Good morning, Roverandom,” she said as she stepped out of the water. Her gown was deep green like summer leaves, and the water ran off it like dew drops off grass blades; her girdle was silver set with blue stones like forget-me-nots, and her eyes were bright as the sunshine reflected on the lily pool. She knelt to pet Roverandom, not seeming to care that he was damp and rather dirty.

“Good morning,” said Roverandom politely. “How did you know my name?”

The lady’s smile was like sunlight on the water. “You are a rather remarkable dog,” she said. “Tom and I go down to the shore sometimes, and have heard from Psathamos something of your adventures. He is very fond of you, you know.”

Roverandom’s ears dropped. “I think he’s rather angry with me at the moment,” he said.

The lady laughed. “Psathamos is not one to hold grudges. You’ll find he will be happy to see you when you go back to visit him.”

Their conversation was interrupted then by a loud hey dol! merry dol! that echoed down a path that Roverandom had not noticed before, that followed the river upstream and disappeared into the wood. A man came dancing down it—and he was indeed dancing, skipping and even leaping high over a fallen log before he landed before Roverandom and the lady. He wore a bright blue jacket and a yellow hat that matched his equally yellow boots; a blue father stuck out of the hat band, and he beamed down at Roverandom through a bushy beard. His eyes were blue as well, as bright as the lady’s, and she rose to kiss him. “Good morning, my fair lady Goldberry!” said the man. “And good morning, Roverandom! You’re quite a way from home. How is the old Man-in-the-Moon these days?”

“He’s doing quite well,” said Roverandom. “Are you Tom?”

“I am indeed! Tom Bombadil, I am. I live up the river and atop the green hill, with my lady Goldberry. Come along, Roverandom, let’s go say good morning to young Thranduil and Daeron and the rest.”

Back in the clearing the elves were waking up again. Someone was playing the guitar, and there was a lot of cheerful chatter going on as breakfast was cooked and served. From somewhere Tom Bombadil had produced a gigantic picnic basket—Roverandom had not seen where or how—and from it he took pitchers of milk and cream, and jars of honey, and loaves of light and fluffy bread, and berries and apples and all kinds of good things to eat. Roverandom was even presented with a whole side of bacon just for himself.

As the day went on, Roverandom learned that Lady Goldberry was the River-daughter that the robin had told him about, and Tom was indeed older than old—the Elves called him Oldest and Fatherless, and he himself told Roverandom that he remembered a time before people, even before dogs, when the world had been new. If this was true, and Roverandom thought that it was, because of the way Tom said it, then he was even older than Psathamos and the Man-in-the-Moon (although according to Maglor, there were many Elves there who were older than the sun and the moon!), and he must have been a powerful magician indeed.

“So why don’t you chase away the spiders?” Roverandom asked him.

“Why does the Man-in-the-Moon not chase away the spiders there?” Tom replied. “Why does he not chase away the dragons?” He laughed. “I no more boss the spiders than I do the trees or the elves or the badgers.”

“They get excited when we come to gather,” said Daeron, who was sitting nearby with Maglor. They were writing a song together, or perhaps arguing about one already written—it was difficult to tell. “They are old enemies, the spiders, especially of Thranduil and his folk. But you need not worry; he led a sortie against them last night, and there will be no spiders bothering anyone for some time to come. No, no, not that cord, go higher—” He turned back to the notebook in which Maglor had been writing. Maglor protested, and a new argument began. Roverandom let Lady Goldberry pet him for a few more minutes before going to play fetch with the children again.

It was a delightful thing, to be among the elves. But after another day or two Roverandom began to realize that Mother and Father would be worrying a bit by now, and that if he was not careful he would not be home in time to greet Michael and his brothers when they came back from Greece.

“I think your boy will spend more than only one week in Greece,” said Maglor, “but I will take you home.”

“I can find my way,” said Roverandom. “It isn’t that far.”

“I would like to go,” said Maglor. “The party will last most of the summer, and I’ll miss very little by going away for a few days.”

So Roverandom said goodbye to the elven children, who were very sad to see him go, and to the Elvenking, who smiled at him and remarked that he had never met such a courteous little dog. And he said goodbye to Daeron, when he found the chance between Daeron’s playing—for as the mightiest singer his performances were much in demand. By this time someone had woven him a circlet of ferns that he wore like the Elvenking wore the summer flowers.

Tom Bombadil scooped Roverandom up to dance around with him one last time, leaving Roverandom feeling quite dizzy by the time he was set back down, though Tom did not seem to notice, but Lady Goldberry told Maglor and Roverandom that she would go with them, if they wished to return to Roverandom’s home by way of the river, which would be quicker than going on foot. So they made their way back to the lily pool, where a little boat waited for them, with room for Maglor and Roverandom and Goldberry, and Maglor’s rucksack, and with a paddle lying on the floor in the middle. Roverandom jumped into the middle while Maglor climbed into the stern, and Goldberry perched smiling at the prow, neatly arranging her skirts.

The river was not a large or swift one, and made its way lazily through the wood and down the hills between fields and pastures and other copses of trees toward the sea. Roverandom peered over the edge of their little boat to watch silver fish dart by, sometimes schools of them following the boat or rushing up to greet Goldberry when she trailed her fingers through the water. She and Maglor sang together as they drifted, Maglor only needing to use the paddle when they came close to running around on one of the riverbanks. They sang of sunshine on clear water, and rain and wind, and dew on morning flowers. Some of the songs sounded like utter nonsense to Roverandom, but perhaps they were only in a very old language that knew only joy; unlike the elven songs, there was never a hint of old grief and sadness in Goldberry’s music.

Sometimes they passed by farm houses or mills with creaking wooden wheels, and they waved and called greetings to the farmers or millers out at work. Once a gaggle of children ran along the bank, laughing and calling out to them, delighted when Roverandom barked back. Goldberry blew them kisses, and bluebells and buttercups burst into bloom along the banks.

By teatime they were approaching the sea; the fresh salt smell blew upriver, lifting Goldberry’s hair and making Maglor paused to tilt his head back, eyes closed as he inhaled deeply. Roverandom sniffed at it for anything interesting, but it smelled only of saltwater and sand and seaweed and fish. Maglor turned the little boat to run aground on a pebbled bank, and Roverandom jumped out, eager to sniff at the bushes and to take care of some canine business, while Maglor and Goldberry said their farewells, for this was where Goldberry would leave them and make her way back up the river.

“We shall see one another again, I think,” she said, kneeling as Roverandom returned to them. “Farewell, Roverandom! May all your journeys be joyous!” She rubbed his ears and ruff and kissed the top of his head. And then she waded into the water, sank beneath the surface with hardly a ripple, and then she was gone, leaving behind only the faint perfume of water lilies.

Roverandom sat down and scratched himself. “Why is she called the River-daughter?” he asked Maglor.

“Because that is what she is,” replied Maglor. “The land has changed and the rivers have turned their courses, so you might say that her mother is no longer here, or that she is changed so much as to be nearly unrecognizable, but Goldberry and Tom have dwelled in this part of the world for ages beyond count, and they will be here still when you and I are no more, singing and laughing under the stars. But come along, this way. We want to avoid the other side of the river now, for it gets marshy and unpleasant.”

The river flowed at last into the sea in a little cove that, at that time, was filled with tide pools. Roverandom sniffed around as Maglor made his way through them, never once slipping on the slick wet rock or the patches of seaweed that had been caught there when the tide went out. But he lost interest when, out of the cove and nearer to the sea, he heard sounds of scuffling and squeaking in the sand. He trotted over, and found a tiny sea-fairy trying to hide beneath a clump of drying seaweed from a handful of only slightly-less-tiny sea-goblins, which were laughing and poking at the seaweed with their small shell-tipped spears. Roverandom charged at them, barking loudly, and they scattered, squealing, fleeing back down into the foamy surf. Roverandom chased them to the waterline, before trotting back to the sea-fairy. He crouched down and nosed at the seaweed. “It’s all right,” he aside when the fairy tried to burrow further in. “I’m not going to hurt you. We’re going to see Psathamos. Would you like to come with us? He can help you get home again.”

The fairy peeped out. “Psathamos?” she said in a tiny, thin voice—thinner out in the air than it was underwater. Roverandom twitched an ear, and the fairy brightened. “Oh, you are Roverandom, aren’t you? You’re bigger than I remember.”

“I was under an enchantment before,” said Roverandom. “Come on, climb on my back and hold onto my fur—but don’t pull!”

“Roverandom,” Maglor called. “What are you doing?” He was some way up the beach, barefoot now and standing ankle deep in the waves. Roverandom did not move until the fairy was safely on his back, holding on to tiny handfuls of his fur. Then he got up and, kicking up wet sand, loped to catch up with Maglor. Fortunately, this did not frighten the fairy—Roverandom could hear her giggling where she sat safely between his shoulder blades. So when Maglor threw a piece of driftwood down the beach, Roverandom tore after it without a second thought.

He had thought they would reach Psathamos’s cove by evening, but the sun set without them coming to it, or even seeing it in the distance, for the river had taken a meandering path to the sea and they were farther up the coast than he had thought. So Maglor built them a fire out of driftwood, and was introduced to the little fairy, who nibbled on seaweed while Roverandom chewed on bacon and a carrot. Maglor caught himself a fish, and cooked it with carrots and potatoes. It was a very pleasant evening. Maglor brought out his harp after the moon rose and the stars came out, and his songs harmonized with the waves so that the water became an integral part of the music, and his voice seemed an integral part of the sweeping and sighing of the water.

That night Roverandom woke when the moon was high. He did not know what had woken him, and when he lifted his head he saw the sea-fairy curled up in a little nest of sand near his head, but Maglor was no longer there. Roverandom sat up properly, and after a few seconds he heard singing, the most mournful singing he had ever heard. It was Maglor’s voice, of course, but while his other songs had contained threads of melancholy, this was all grief and tears and lamentation. Roverandom saw like ghosts out over the surf figures moving—ships across the water, and what looked like a terrible fight on the docks of some sea port far away. Other elves back in the wood had sung songs that conjured images for the audience, but they had been splendid or bright and whimsical. Roverandom lay down again, head between his paws, and whined softly. He did not like this song.

Eventually the music faded, but Maglor did not come back. Roverandom waited, but eventually he got up and trotted down the beach. He found Maglor sitting so his feet were washed by the waves as they came up the sand. He was rubbing at his palm in an absent sort of way as he gazed out at the moonlight over the water. Roverandom nuzzled at his shoulder, and licked his face. Maglor did not speak, but he wrapped an arm around Roverandom and leaned down to press his face into Roverandom’s fur. He wasn’t crying, but whatever songs he had been singing had left him upset and sad. Roverandom wondered, but did not ask, why he had been singing them in the first place.

It had been so late when Roverandom had been woken by the music that it turned out to be very early instead, and it was not long before the moon sank and the sky started to grow pale, and the stars to fade from view. The morning star could be seen gleaming brightly near the horizon.

“My father made that,” said Maglor after a while, as they watched it rise higher.

“The star?” Roverandom asked. There had been songs about it, at the elven party, but he had been falling asleep when they’d started singing them.

“The Silmaril,” said Maglor. “There were three; they were stolen. It was why we came back to Middle-earth, you know.”

“Did you get them back?” Roverandom asked.

“Not from the Enemy. And not that one. And by then we couldn’t keep them.” Maglor sighed. And then he said, “All of my brothers died for those jewels. One of them—Celegorm—he would have liked you very much. He had a great hound for a companion when we were young, named Huan.”

That name sounded familiar. As did the name Celegorm—and then Roverandom recalled where he had heard them—in the Lay of Leithian a few nights before. The Celegorm in the song had been wicked and cruel, locking Lúthien away and then trying to kill her and Beren later, but Roverandom did not think that was the Celegorm that Maglor was remembering and missing. And Huan had been a noble and brave hound, and that sort of dog wouldn’t have loved someone like Celegorm if he had always been so bad. So Roverandom did not say anything, only sat and let Maglor pet him and lean against him until the sun crested the horizon, red as fire and turning the sky and sea pink. Only then did Maglor rouse himself to go back to their little camp.

They scattered the campfire ashes, and the sea fairy climbed onto Roverandom’s back again for that day’s walk. Like the day before, they went leisurely, playing fetch or stopping to splash around in the waves, which were as good or better than the bath that Roverandom had been dreading. He felt quite clean by that evening, with all the remaining web bits washed away along with the dirt and leaf mould of the woods, so that he only smelled like damp dog and salt, instead of musty spiderweb and dirt.

At last, when evening was coming again, they came to the familiar cove where Psathamos lived. Already mermaids were gathering for one of his parties, along with a large group of sea-fairies that were delighted to have one of their own returned to him. The mermaids greeted Roverandom with kisses, and Maglor too, laughing as he escaped farther up the beach, to where Psathamos sat with his great big ears perked up, and a satisfied smile on his face. “Hullo,” he said to Maglor. “I would greet you by name, but I don’t know which one you’re using these days.”

“It’s Maglor today,” said Maglor as he sat down on the sand.

“Ahh, yes, the elves are gathering up and away in the woods.” Psathamos nodded. “I hear some of the echoes of the music, even down here. Old Tom was singing hey dilly dol all afternoon the day before yesterday.” And then he turned to Roverandom, who had come more slowly up to greet him, still nervous. “And hullo, Roverandom! I was wondering if I would ever see you come down again. But it seems you’ve been off having adventures elsewhere!”

“I’m very sorry that I disrupted your spell before, Psathamos,” said Roverandom, as politely as he could.

“Oh, that’s all right. You’re only a pup still, you didn’t know. But now you do, so be careful in the future! Come sit beside me and tell me all about what you’ve been doing. I suppose you went to see the elves at their party in the woods? Not as lively as one of mine, I daresay. How did you like old Tom?”

“Oh I liked him quite a lot,” said Roverandom. “Is he a magician like you?”

“Tom is what he is,” said Psathamos. This was not at all helpful, but there was no use pressing for more, when magicians started talking like that. “I’m overdue for a visit from him, in fact. Maglor, tell him I would like a chat, next time you see him.” Maglor hummed an assent, not looking up from tuning his guitar. “And what about you, Maglor? Will you stay a while in this part of the world, or are you going to flit off again?”

Maglor did look up this time, and he smiled. It did not quite reach his eyes, but Roverandom was glad to see it all the same; in spite of the playing and the splashing, Maglor had been quiet and sad all day. “I think I will,” he said. “I saw an advertisement in town for a music teacher at the school. It would be nice to live a while in one place, by the sea.”

“Excellent!” Psathamos said. He clapped his hands, and just like that the party began, and a lively party it was, too. Maglor played his guitar and the mermaids sang and laughed and ate and drank the food that Psathamos conjured up by magic. Roverandom barked and jumped around with them for a little while, but he was tired from the long walk down the beach, and soon came back to lie down by Maglor. He was very glad to know that Maglor would be staying in the village. It would be very interesting, and exciting, to have an elf in the neighborhood.

But for the moment Roverandom had had enough excitement, and even enough of music and dancing and singing. His thoughts kept turning to his comfortable bed at home, and his toys and the bone he had buried in the back garden that would be perfect for digging up just about now. He yawned, and stretched his legs front and then back, and stood up. “I’m going to go home now,” he told Maglor and Psathamos. “Goodbye, Maglor. Thank you for saving me from the spiders, and taking me to see the elves. Goodbye, Psathamos! I’ll come back to visit again soon.”

“Goodbye for now, Roverandom,” said Maglor.

“Goodbye, pup,” said Psathamos. “Don’t be too long! I still want to hear all about your adventures with the spiders and the elves.”

In the moonlight, Roverandom made his way back up the beach to the little cottage. There was a light on in the kitchen, but when he scratched at the door no one came to open it. He went around to the front of the house and found the family car missing from the driveway. So he lay down on the front porch to wait. It would have been very lonely and disappointing at any other time to come home to an empty house, but his belly was still full from Psathamos’s party, and he was comfortably sleepy, and the porch was still warm from the afternoon’s sunshine, so he was content to doze and listen to the cricket under the porch until someone returned to let him inside.

At last, his ears pricked up at the sound of footsteps coming down the lane, and Mother and Father’s voices talking together. The front gate creaked a little when opened, and they came up the walk arm in arm, Mother laughing at something Father had just said. “Well, look who’s come back!” Father exclaimed as Roverandom bounded to his feet. “Hullo, boy, where have you been?”

“Down at the beach by the smell of him,” said Mother. Roverandom knew better than to jump up and get his dirty paws on her dress, but he licked at her hand when she reached out to pet him. “I’m only glad he’s back in one piece.”

“I told you he’d be all right,” said Father. “All right, Roverandom, let’s go inside. You must be hungry, with all the roving you’ve been doing.”

He wasn’t particularly hungry, but no dog will turn up his nose at an extra meal. And by the time he was done Roverandom was very sleepy, and quite happy to curl up in his bed in the living room, where Mother was sitting with a book, while Father hunched over a jigsaw puzzle by the window. The radio was on, playing soft piano music. It was not magical or exceptional, but was as comforting as a good scratch behind the ears, and Roverandom was soon deeply asleep.