Trouble in the library by Jane Speedwell

Trouble in the library

Nolondil leaned back from the desk and exhaled sharply, eliciting an irritated glance from a nearby scholar.

He wasn’t getting anywhere with this lexicon. Telerin was a handful at the best of times, and this particular form of ancient Telerin – spoken, so far as he could tell, at the time when the seafolk first reached the Great Sea – was turning out to be an orthographical nightmare. There were a number of odd symbols hovering above the letters which he just couldn’t make out. It looked like he’d have to make that long-delayed trip to Alqualondë, after all; one of their loremasters was bound to know the meaning of those maddening swirling dots.

Swirling, like pebbles displaced by a wave clawing its way up a beach. It was curious how alphabets could reflect the character of their people – or perhaps it was the other way round? Maybe the –

His wandering thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a slamming door. The nearby scholar tutted. A man stormed into the Small Reading Room, and the scholar cleared his throat loudly. Oblivious, the man paced wildly, robes flapping around him.

‘It’s outrageous! Shall such a one as I stand for this treatment? The ungrateful little monster, I should never have let his sorry hide enter this sacred place of learning!’

Dropping all pretence of working, Nolondil asked the Archivist what on earth the matter was.

‘The matter? The matter!? Young Fëanáro has just been in here, and –‘

‘Ah’.

‘Ah? What do you mean, ah? Do you have any idea what he said to me just now?’

‘Well – his reputation does precede him. I’m not surprised you had trouble. What did he do to get you into this state?’

Privately, Nolondil was amazed and not a little amused. For as long as he’d known the Archivist – and that was quite a long time – the Archivist had never lost his temper. His unflappable demeanour was legendary.

‘We were discussing languages – I assumed he’d come to borrow a book on etymology – and he started trying to tell me that language is arbitrarily constructed; that whenever we read something, the meaning we put into it is necessarily our own and nobody else’s. That language has no true meaning in itself. That the etymological study of languages is completely useless’.

‘Oh my.’

‘Well, quite! I of course responded that this was utter nonsense; we have carefully nurtured and developed our languages over millennia in order to create precise meanings as well as aural beauty. But what do you think he did then?’

‘I really can’t imagine’.

‘He got very flustered, and told me in no uncertain terms that I was a backwards booby if I couldn't accept that language was simply a meaningless construct. He informed me heatedly that he was about to publish a paper on this which would completely change how people saw language. The odd thing is, he then shook my hand and sped out of the library in the best of humours. He is such a terribly changeable young man.'

‘Goodness’.

The Archivist was still red-faced.

‘I shall be having words with Fëanáro’s father. That boy needs to learn how to conduct himself in the presence of his elders, and, might I add, his learned superiors.’

At that, the scholar finally looked up. ‘I say, do you think you’ll be done with your conversation any time soon? I’m trying to get on with some important geological research here, you know’.

The Archivist shot the scholar a withering glance, turned on his heel and marched out of the room.

Well, thought Nolondil. Fëanáro had quite some nerve to tell Tirion’s chief archivist and foremost etymologist that his discipline was nonsense. He couldn’t quite be sure whether Fëanáro really believed what he was saying or whether he was just trying to wind up the old elf. The boy obviously had a very high opinion of himself. That said – he was supposed to be a phenomenally talented linguist. Nolondil chewed the tip of his quill and wondered whether Fëanáro would be able to help him with the ancient Telerin symbols. It was worth a try, even if it would send the Archivist into hysterics.

Smiling slowly, Nolondil got up, packed his things away, and made his way towards the Fëanorian Quarter. It was easier than a trip to Alqualondë, anyway.