Fair Things Yet to Be by Lindariel

Fair Things Yet to Be

Read Fair Things Yet to Be

Alatáriel paused at an intersection marked by a particularly magnificent beech pillar, this one carved in some silvery stone so lifelike she might have mistaken it for a living tree save that it lacked the reverberating energy of the olvar. She listened intently. After so long a time living with the sound of the sea, she was still having trouble adjusting to dwelling in a cave, no matter how magnificent. Into the silence where the waves and wind were not came a new set of noises: the clinking of ceramic, the resonant notes of wood striking wood, soft rhythmic thumping, whirring, rustlings in several registers, and something that sounded like nothing so much as the gentle strumming of a lyre in dire need of new strings. Several voices hummed in low conversation beneath a rhapsodic singer's description of ninglor springing into bloom under the light of the Sun. She turned left, reassured by the familiar sounds of a weaving atelier.

The gold lantern hanging from the carved tree behind her reflected off the shining surface of a tapestry curtain stretched between two more beech pillars a short way down the passage. Above the opening, where the branches interlaced, hung a silver lantern wrought in the shape of a five-petaled white flower; Alatáriel would have recognized it as representing a blossom of Telperion even without the cool light welling from it. The curtain portrayed Melian and her daughter Lúthien weaving side by side at a great tapestry loom. The designer had not only captured their likenesses but had also composed the double portrait very cleverly, with the weavers' faces visible through, and partially veiled by, the unwoven warp of the loom while their garments flowed out to either side. The tapestry within the tapestry showed a patch of niphredil under a tree full of nightingales singing to the stars. It was so minutely detailed that Alatáriel could count every softly rosy-tan tailfeather on every bird, every cool gleam of starlight highlighting every lambent petal.

Unused to physically interacting with such fine textiles, Alatáriel hesitated in front of the curtain. She scarcely knew how to touch it, fearful she would damage the delicate perfection of it. She summoned up her experience with illumination, touching the supple textile as if she were turning the page of a gilded manuscript. When it failed to crumble under her hand, she grasped it more assuredly and gently swished it aside enough to enter the room.

Warm gold light dazzled her for a moment, and she shaded her eyes for a moment until they adjusted. Melian's weaving studio was a vast round chamber with several smaller round alcoves. The walls curved up from eight beech tree pillars into an eight-sided rond faced with pale green chalcedony tiles carved in an overall pattern of interlacing vines. Many other large chambers in Menegroth had such domed ceilings, but this was more elaborate than many. A series of clear panes set in silver frames capped the top third of the rond, whether carved quartz or glass Alatáriel could not tell. She could see the Sun through them, shining down from clear blue skies.

A profusion of colors met her eyes as she lowered them from the rond. The room was full of looms. Great upright rectangular frames half again the height of the weavers, with warps of moderate density, stood around the perimeter. Nearer the center of the room were seats with looms set before them a third the size of the larger ones, and with much finer warps. Most of the looms held partially completed weavings. A number of ellith stood or sat before looms, some weaving, some considering their warps thoughtfully. Others moved in and out of the small alcoves, which seemed to hold tools and supplies. At the center of the room stood a stone pedestal table, cluttered with sketches competing for space with shallow willow baskets full of multicolored skeins. Two ellyn sat at the table, one singing and one drawing with vine charcoal on a piece of rag paper.

Alatáriel's eye was drawn to the form emerging from one of the alcoves. Jet beads twinkled on her slate-grey gown as Melian turned, her hands full of bobbins. Nightingales fluttered around her, then flew up into the pillar-trees as Melian walked toward Alatáriel. The sight of her in the golden light reminded Alatáriel of the times she had glimpsed Estë asleep in the gardens of Lórien before the Darkening; for like Estë, Melian clad herself in grey that did not entirely conceal her divine nature.

"Lady," said Alatáriel quietly, her knees bending in a short reflexive reverence, "I am at your command." She was not yet accustomed to being the daily companion of one of the Powers.

Melian looked at the bobbins in her hands, then set them gently on the table where they formed an untidy, bright heap of colors: greens, golds, silver-grey, and an improbable silvery-green. "Welcome, child," she said warmly. "Come and sit with me before we begin." She moved toward another alcove, and Alatáriel followed her through it into a small, many-sided chamber also topped with a rond. A tapestry hung on each wall of the chamber, separated from its fellows by more of the miraculous stone trees of Menegroth. A round bench carved from the living rock of the floor took up the center of the room. Melian sat down and patted the space next to her, into which Alatáriel subsided obediently.

"You have spoken with joy concerning the weaving of sails," began Melian. "Today you will call upon the skills you already have as you begin to learn the joy of weaving things that are true."

"Yes, my Lady," Alatáriel replied. "You know this art was forbidden in my grandfather's and father's houses, and why; but I am eager to learn it under your instruction."

"Sometimes one must start with a truth, such as something that has already come to be," Melian said, gesturing to one of the hangings on the wall. It seemed to show a sphere set against flat black, a sphere lit from the inside by a flame that was simultaneously white and more colors than Alatáriel could count.

"What does this represent, Lady?" she asked.

"That which is!" replied Melian, with a reverent tremble in her voice.

Alatáriel began to chant in Quenya:

"'And I will send forth into the Void the Flame Imperishable,
and it shall be at the heart of the World,
and the World shall Be;
and those of you that will may go down into it.'
And suddenly the Ainur saw afar off a light,
as it were a cloud with a living heart of flame;
and they knew that this was no vision only,
but that Ilúvatar had made a new thing:
Eä, the World that Is."

Melian's eyes widened. "What are these words?" she inquired.

"They are part of a tale called the Ainulindalë," replied Alatáriel, "learned from Vairë and versified by Rúmil, a loremaster from Tirion. Does this hanging represent the Flame Imperishable, Lady?"

"Yes," Melian nodded. "This hanging is the truth of something that has already come to be, the creation of the world that is. But not every weaving is a truth that has already come to be." She nodded to a hanging at the other side of the chamber. It was very different from the first hanging, showing a beautiful city on a flat hill rising like an island above a plain encircled by mountains. Graceful fountains, wide plazas, blooming gardens, and fair buildings surrounded a tall central tower; two great trees, one white and one golden, stood before the tower, and a scarlet heart rippled on the white banner atop it.

"That looks akin to Tirion," said Alatáriel, "yet it is not. Where is another such city?"

"It is a truth that has not yet come to be," Melian responded. "Have you ever seen such a thing, Alatáriel? A truth that has not yet come to be?"

Alatáriel paused. "I believe I have, Lady," she eventually admitted. "Sometimes in a basin of water I can see events that have not come to pass, or even sometimes the truth of another's fëa. Kementári told me it was a gift and I should learn how to use it. I had begun to learn more about it, but I have not thought about it since I came to these shores."

"Then you must begin to work on that gift again. I will guide you in that, as in the weaving. But this day is for weaving. Come," Melian said, rising.

Alatáriel followed her out of the display room to a small loom near the center of the workshop. She sat down on one of the two chairs in front of the loom; Melian sat beside her in the other chair. Pointing to the empty loom frame, Melian began to explain how to prepare for weaving a tapestry: the envisionment of a truth; all the artistic choices of size, shape, colors, style; and all the crafting choices of loom, yarn types, warp sizes and setts. Alatáriel nodded frequently, fitting the new knowledge in with what she already knew of Telerin and Falathrin weaving.

At length Melian handed a ball of plied linen to Alatáriel and showed her how to warp the loom. As Alatáriel unrolled the linen up and down the loom, striving for perfectly even tension, Melian walked away for a short time, returning with a small hamper which she set beside the chair before sitting back down.

Alatáriel tied off the last knot, tested the tension lightly one last time with her two hands, and turned to Melian with an inquiring look. Melian danced her hands over the smooth, even surface of the warp and nodded. "That is well warped," she said. "I see you already have great skill. Now here are your tools." She reached into the hamper and unpacked several wound bobbins, a comb, and a small, smoothly shaped wood batten. She set them all on the tray at the base of the warp. "The rest of your yarn is here," she said, pointing into the hamper. Alatáriel recognized the array of green and gold colors; these were the bobbins Melian had been carrying when she first saw her.

Melian resumed explaining, this time laying out the specific techniques for tapestry weaving. Alatáriel concentrated, furrowing her brow and sometimes asking Melian to repeat an instruction. She took up the tools and moved them as Melian showed her how. It took a while for her to master the movements of the batten -- it required so assured and light a touch compared to the joyous battering required by a sailcloth warp. But soon Melian judged her ready to begin the weaving.

"How do I know what to weave?" Alatáriel wondered.

Inside her head she heard Melian the way she had often heard Kementári, opening her thoughts to Alatáriel. "I will show you," Melian conveyed, "and you will weave it." Then followed a vision: a high green hill thickly grown with tall silvery trees bearing golden blossoms and green leaf buds. The grass beneath was carpeted with golden leaves. The tallest tree of all stood at the center of the hill, and nestled in the center of its branches was a great hall built of polished grey wood.

Alatáriel opened her thoughts to Melian in turn, desiring to know what the vision meant.

"It is another truth that has not yet come to pass," said Melian aloud. "Now begin to make it be."

Picking up a bobbin wound with grass-green yarn, Alatáriel looked fixedly at the empty warp in front of her. She dipped the pointed end of the bobbin into the warp, took a deep breath, and began to create.

As she worked, she began to discern a difference between tapestry and sailcloth weaving. The repetitive motions of weaving sailcloth had always encouraged her thoughts to become serene and reflective. The more calm and remote she was, the more perfect the repetitions her hröa could produce, and the more even her cloth. Weaving tapestry was a completely different experience. Each discontinuous movement, each studied placement of every individual intersection of every warp thread with every weft thread, carried a significance to the completed work, forcing her thoughts into continuous engagement with the act of creation. It was the most mindful thing she had ever attempted to master, and it was not easy.

She found it was easier to weave true when she closed her eyes. Closing her eyes made her see the vision Melian had shared with her more clearly. It also meant she did not see Melian winding more bobbins and placing them ready to her hand. She wove and wove, so completely absorbed in the faithful depiction of the vision that she did not notice when when the weavers began lighting lamps to help them see their warps, nor when the clear dome began letting in moonlight instead of sunlight.

Finally Melian touched her hand to call her back from her work. "You have done so well," she said, as Alatáriel opened her eyes, looking around and blinking in the gathering dusk. "Look! The central section is finished, and most of the hill. How quickly you have learned shading! But it is time to stop now. Tomorrow will be time enough for you to begin work again. Tonight you must rest your thoughts and replenish your hrond."

Alatáriel stood up, moved away from the loom, and moved through her stretching series. Only then did she look at what she had woven. There was something special about those trees, the big beech-shaped yellow leaves, the clusters of golden five-petaled blossoms, the smooth grey bark and elegant growth patterns. She wondered what Melian's vision signified, where the green hill might be, and whether she would ever visit whoever lived there. She picked up her hamper of yarn and set it on the chair for tomorrow, then looked around for Melian and moved to join her at the table.

Melian evidently did intend for Alatáriel to eat right away, as she had called for food and drink to be brought in. The baskets of yarn had been shoved to one side of the table to make room for berries, roasted chestnuts, grilled river fish, mushrooms, and honey-sweetened egg tarts. Pitchers of birch beer and mead sat amid the platters. The few weavers who were still in the room stopped working to eat as well, along with the limner and the singer, who had long since ceased singing and was now doing something with a reed pen and some of the limner's paper.

"Now then, Alatáriel," said Melian. "After you have satisfied your hunger, I want you to chant that tale, the Ainulindalë, for Daeron here."

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Chapter End Notes

Alatáriel's chant is from The Silmarillion, "Ainulindalë:  The Music of the Ainur."

olvar (Quenya) -- the family of living things that have roots, i.e., plants
ninglor (Sindarin) -- yellow flag iris (Old English glædene, Linnaean Iris pseudacorus)
niphredil (Sindarin) -- the white snowdrop-like flower that sprang up in Doriath to greet the birth of Lúthien
rond (Doriathrin) -- a domed roof, from the root word for "cave"
ellith (Sindarin) -- female Elves
ellyn (Sindarin) -- male Elves
fëa (Quenya) -- spirit or soul
hröa (Quenya) -- corporeal body
hrond (Sindarin) -- corporeal body, the equivalent of Quenya hröa