The Elendilmir by pandemonium_213

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Chapter 35: All Good Beasts

After Sámaril and Apairivo arrive at Farmer Butterbur's croft, Sámaril is called upon to assist Apairivo with delivery of a calf and discovers one of the ways that Apairivo uses his gift of rope from Gil-Galad.  Once again, Sámaril enjoys the hospitality of mortal Middle Men and drinks and dances with Butterbur's household. However, on the way back to the manor, Sámaril unintentionally reveals something of his past that causes Apairivo concern.  This is further exacerbated when Apairivo mentions an observation made by Carnhul, his horse, and later confirmed by the sleepy Elerína.

 

 

Acknowledgements:

Many thanks to Lizards Elfscribe, KyMahalei, Erulissë, Randy_O, Drummerwench, Aeärwen, Jael, Russandol, sanna, Gandalf's Apprentice, and Surgical Steel for comments and critical feedback on this and the previous chapter.

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Slinging the coil of rope over my shoulder, I followed Apairivo into yet another wattle and daub barn, but this one was larger, and like the nearby farmhouse, it had an air of prosperity about it. Its interior was dim, lit only by a lantern hanging near a stall where a small fawn-colored cow lay on a thick layer of straw. When we entered the barn, she turned her head and looked at us with dark eyes as limpid as a doe's, eyes that brimmed with pain and fear.  Apairivo took matters in hand immediately.

"Butterbur, bring me clean water and soap straightaway!"

While the farmer dashed out of the barn, Apairivo hung his cap on a nail and stripped off his tunic so that he was bare-chested. The farmer returned with a bar of soap in one hand, a bucket of water in the other, and three other men accompanying him. Apairivo lathered his hands and arms thoroughly, all the way up to his shoulders. He then knelt down behind the cow, crooning to her all the while, and reached into her. He concentrated fully while he examined the beast. Then he withdrew his hand.

"Good news! Calf's alive!"

"Thank the stars for that!" cried Butterbur. The other men murmured their agreement.

"The little one's head is turned back, but let's see what I can do. Hand me the rope, Istyar."

I did as he asked. The hithlain rope shimmered silver in the lamplight when he unwound it. Apairivo grasped the one end and again thrust his hand into the cow's body. He stuck his tongue out in concentration, and his face blushed red with exertion; he grunted now and then as he worked his arm deep within the cow. She lowed in distress.

"Istyar, sing something would you?" he called.

"Sing? What should I sing?"

"Anything. Beasts seem to like the sound of elvish song. Whatever you choose."

I decided a gentle song might do the frightened cow some good so I chose a lullaby that had been beloved of Ost-in-Edhil's children and before that, from Ondolindë, a song that my mother had sung to my sister and me.

"Very good, Istyar. That is calming her. Just one more loop. Yes! Got it. Now take the rope. I need you to pull on it firmly but gently -- gently by all means -- when I tell you. Are you ready?"

After I rolled up my shirt sleeves, I wrapped the rope around my right hand and grasped the length with my left, still singing, and nodded to him.

"Right then. Now pull. Steady...steady...yes, that's it!"

I continued to pull on the rope, slowly taking one step back and then another until suddenly the resistance gave way. I stumbled backward and stepped on something slick. My foot slipped, and I fell on my arse right onto a pile of fresh cow manure. Laughter rippled among the men, and I overheard "So much for the grace of the Elves!" from one of them. A curse threatened to escape my lips, but when I saw the little creature, covered with slime and blood, that had slipped from its mother's body, I forgot about my lost dignity. The slender elven-rope was looped around its head and through its mouth like a bridle. That Apairivo had been able to manipulate the rope like that within the cow amazed me. He removed the loops while the calf gasped, taking in its first breath of air.

"Oi! It's a wee heifer!" cried the farmer. "May she be as blessed as her ma!"

"She's a fine calf, Butterbur," said Apairivo. "I wager she'll grow up to give milk and cream as sweet as her dam's. Now I'll clean up while you take mother and child out to clean pasture. Be sure to keep an eye on her. Daisy should pass the membranes in a few hours."

"Aye, she did before." Butterbur was about to walk to Daisy, who had risen to her feet to inspect her young one while I tried to stand without smearing yet more manure on myself. "Ah, here, my lord. Let me help you." He grabbed my hand in his and pulled me to my feet. He looked at my dung-smeared clothing. "Here now. My missus can clean that. But there's worse than cow shit. It's got an honest stink to it, wouldn't you say?" Butterbur asked philosophically.

"Yes, I suppose so," I said while wiping at the back of my trousers with clean straw and wondering what Gil-galad would have thought about the use of the rope he had given to Apairivo.

Joining Apairivo by the bucket of water, I washed up as best I could.

"Do you often use your gift from the king for such purposes?" I asked as I lathered my hands and arms.

"Oh, I use it for all manner of things, but it's a marvel for calving. It never injures the calf, and it is much easier to manipulate within the cow than crofter's rough rope. Cleans up beautifully, too."

"May I ask you something else?"

"Surely," Apairivo replied. "You're certainly allowed after the question I asked you earlier today."

"It's nothing quite that delicate, my lord..."

"Oh for stars' sake, call me Pairo! We're practically family."

"All right then...Pairo. How did you come to be a healer of beasts?"

He did not answer immediately but continued to scrub his hands and arms as vigorously as he had before he helped Daisy. Then he spoke up while he worked the soap between his fingers.

"It was back in Númenor. I have always loved beasts, wild and tame both. When I was a lad, I never could get enough of the tales of Oromë.  Then I found that I could call birds to light upon my hand, and I healed fledglings that had fallen from their nests. I could, in my own way, speak to beasts and birds to discover what ailed them. The old healer on our estate said I had a rare gift and encouraged my parents to let me study the healing arts. My tutor wished me to be a healer of Men, but truly? I loved beasts and birds more than anything that walked on two legs. Still do." He patted himself dry with a rough sack. "My mother was horrified that her noble son would sully his hands so, but my father, always a practical man, thought my skills might come in handy with the sheep and horses of our holdings. And so here I am: Lord of Cardolan and a healer of all good beasts."

"You remind me of Valandil."

"I do?"

"Yes. He, too, has the gift of healing. It runs very strong in him."

"Hmmm. The blood of Lúthien shows itself again for good or ill." He wriggled the tunic over his head.

"Why would you think such a gift to be ill?"

"Perhaps speaking to birds, beasts and even trees is normal for one of your kind, but for mortals such as myself? It is a thing that can drive Men to madness. I have been lucky enough to harness the gift. Others have been less fortunate, and even for myself, there have been times..." He paused and took a deep breath. "There have been times when the gift has threatened to consume me."

"I think I understand, Pairo."

"I thought perhaps you would," he said enigmatically. "I just hope that Valandil is able to handle his gift."

"Master Elrond guides him."

"I see. Then perhaps all will be well." He wiped his hands on the long hem of his tunic and adjusted his cap. "Come! Master Butterbur has asked us to stay for supper. We shouldn't keep him and his good wife waiting!"

We walked together out of the barn into the shadowed yard. A ways off to our right, I saw a very pregnant young woman trying to pump water from a well, but despite her efforts, only a trickle of water ran from the spout into a tin bucket. A small child whined and pulled at her apron.

"Looks as if the young lady is having difficulties," Apairivo said.

"It does. Would you excuse me for a moment?"

"By all means."

When I approached the well, the young woman, barely more than a girl, dropped her hand from the pump's handle and bowed. She did not make the warding gesture I had seen earlier, but neither did she raise her eyes to mine.

"My lord..." The child, a little boy, plucked at her apron, and his whine transformed into weeping. "Oh, Cobby, please! Don't fuss!" Then she looked up at me, and much to my relief, she did not flinch. "I'm sorry, my lord. He's tired, and we're all so busy in the kitchen, you see."

"Cobby?" I knelt before the little boy whose his brown eyes were reddened from crying and weariness. "Here, I have something for you." I plucked a small elfstone from the leather pocket that hung from my belt. "Be a good boy now while I help your mother." I set the pebble in his hand. He ceased sniveling, and his eyes grew wide as his mother's when he gazed at the stone that glinted green in the dying light of the day.

"What do you say, Cobby?"  His mother gently prodded him.

"Thank you," he said, turning the pebble over with his grubby little fingers. "Is it magic?"

"If you wish it to be, it is," I replied, ruffling his golden-brown curls. "Now let's see to this pump."

I stood and ran my hand over the pump, levering the handle to test it and sending my thoughts skimming along its parts to discover only minor repairs were required. Thankfully it did not need to be primed. Using the steel pliers that I always carried with me, I made the adjustments.

"Try it again," I said.

She lifted the pump handle and pushed it down in one smooth motion. Water gushed from the spout.

"Thank you, my lord..."

"Please call me Sámaril."

She bowed again. "I am Maida Butterbur. Tolman's wife, that is. He's the master's eldest son. You will be staying for supper, my lord?"

"I believe so. Here, I'll pump the water."

"Thank you, and begging your pardon, my lord," she said, wrinkling her nose, "you might want to remove your trousers before you...well, before you join us at the table."

"Ah. The honest stink of manure is less welcome there than in the barn."

She blushed but smiled. "You may borrow a pair of my Tolman's trousers."

"That sounds like a reasonable solution.  I'd be grateful for their use."

Maida and her son then watched me fill the tin pails to their brim with cold water. I lifted them, and when I glanced up, I saw Apairivo standing by the door and with what looked to be a smile of approval on his face.

Supper for us and Butterbur's large household of family and farmhands was homely but hearty fare of mutton stew, loaves of brown bread and new spring greens from Mistress Butterbur's garden, all accompanied by generous tankards of amber-colored ale covered with creamy foam. Butterbur's brew was no less delicious than that of the Dwarves, and I found my tankard never emptied, no matter how much I drank from it. After we finished the stew and mopped up the last drops from our bowls with the bread, Butterbur's wife, her daughters and daughters-by-marriage rose from the long table and cleared the plates. The men, however, remained seated and continued to talk amongst themselves.

At first, there had been a certain reserve among the mortals thanks to my presence, but soon, that disappeared and those at the large table spoke freely. A few polite questions were directed toward me, but mostly I listened to their conversations. Butterbur's eldest son Tolman remained on the farm, but I learned that his second son, Bron, had moved "up Bree-way" as they said, and had begun construction of an inn there. One of the Butterbur cousins at the table told us of the building.

"They've started on the foundations, Uncle," he said to Farmer Butterbur. "Bron thinks it will be ready for guests next autumn."

The farmer harrumphed. "Don't know why Bron is so keen on it. He could have just opened a tavern down this way."

"But it may become prosperous! After all, there are many who travel up to the City of the King and back and forth along the Great East Road: Men, Dwarves and even Elves," and then he turned to me, "but begging your pardon my lord, I don't think your folk would stay in such a place."

"Why ever not?" I said, after finishing a long drink of ale. "I like a decent mattress under my back as much as the next man!"

"And maybe a wench to warm the bed, too?" said one of the other men to the amusement of the others. Their laughter died when Butterbur shot the fellow a sharp glance.

"There's no call for that, Lind."

I opened my mouth to deflect the admonishment, for had I not made similar jests among my fellows when drinking? But Apairvo said smoothly, "Istyar Sámaril has a lovely lady to keep him company. He has no need of wenches."

The subject of women warming my bed was quickly dropped at Apairivo's remark, which coincided with the women's re-emergence from the kitchen. They carried bowls of the first strawberries of the season, a pitcher of cream and a wheel of aged cheese. "Made from Daisy's milk! Here's to the best cow in the country!" cried Butterbur. We all joined his toast.

When I ate the last berry in my bowl and nibbled on a wedge of Daisy's rich cheese, I thought we might be close to concluding the meal and departing, for the sun had set, and twilight painted the hills purple and blue. But I was wrong. Again, the last of the bowls were cleared, but the women returned bearing trays of small glasses and a large brown jug that was placed on the table. Butterbur pulled the stopper from the jug and poured a liquid that looked like brandy into the glasses. I eyed it quizzically; when I sniffed it, the scent of fire, smoke and honey burned my nose.

Apairivo leaned over toward me. "It's a special kind of whisky. Butterbur makes the very best in these parts."

He put the glass to his lips, tilted his head back and swigged it down. I did the same. Liquid flame seared my throat, and I could not stop the cough that erupted. Apairivo's smile took a triumphant turn when he took the jug and poured another glass for me. Meeting his challenge, I drank it down, this time without coughing.

Meanwhile, chairs and furniture in the large parlor next to the dining hall were pushed aside. One man produced a pair of skin drums, another a fiddle, and yet another, a tin whistle. Then the dancing began. I immediately gave myself over to the music, which became sweet and wild. I spun about the room, clapping my hands and stomping my feet, and stopped only to drink more whisky and to change partners. My borrowed trousers, too short in the legs and too wide at the waist, threatened to slide down my hips during my more vigorous movements. But I tightened the belt as best I could while I danced with every woman in Butterbur's household, and caused old Mistress Butterbur, the indisputable lady of the house, to giggle like a girl when I kissed her hand.

I was unaware when it was decided that we would depart, but through a whisky fogged haze, I found myself embracing my host, his wife and all the good people of their household as if they were the closest of my brethren and bidding them good night. Clutching a full jug of whisky that had somehow found its way into my hands, I stumbled to the carriage. Apairivo did not stumble, but neither did he walk straight. Ragwort, who had not touched a drop of liquor or ale, sat on the driver's seat, silently waiting for us. Old Nettlefoot stomped her hoofs impatiently while Apairivo and I tumbled into the carriage, nearly landing in one another's lap and laughing uproariously all the while. Once we were underway, Apairivo opened the jug of whisky and tilted it back; he took a long swig of it and handed it over to me. I did the same although a bump in the road caused me to spill liquor down my neck and over my chest.

Apairivo then lifted his voice in a song unfamiliar to me, and in the language of the Men of Númenor. Unlike many of the somber lays from Westernesse, it was a pleasant, lively song.

"That was a folk song of Emerië," he said. "Now your turn." He took another swig of whisky. "Sing something of your people. Something merry. Or don't the High Elves have any songs like that?"

"Of course, we do!" So in my drunken state, I chose a rollicking and ribald song of my youth in Eregion. It was one that we had sung with the Istyar when we were with him out in the field for our studies or at his home for parties when none of the women were about to disapprove of our rowdy behavior. Apairivo picked up on the words and joined me in the lusty chorus.

When I finished, I, too, took a drink from the jug. Apairivo chuckled. "An elf-maid and a smith's rusty nail. Very funny. "

"It is a funny song," I said. "I haven't sung it since...well, since that last celebration with Istyar Aulendil."

"What was that name?" Apairivo asked abruptly. "Aulendil?"

The night's merriment evaporated at once. "Yes," I answered reluctantly, appalled that I had mentioned my teacher's name so casually.

"Aulendil.  Where have I heard that name before, hmmm?  One of Vardamir Nólimon's sons, but obviously that could not be him. Ah. Now I remember. Old Finion, the master of the palantír, used that name a couple of times. I believe that Aulendil was also known as the Zigûr in my homeland. Annatar was another of his names. But we of the Faithful called him the Deceiver. But now you name him Istyar Aulendil. What was he to you?"

I laid my head back to watch the stars spin around alarmingly fast. "I do not know what to say, Pairo."

"I can see why you'd be at a loss for words."

"He was my teacher, but I am not he."

"I know. I can see that."

"Then why are you doing this to me?"

"Doing what?"

"This! Making me help you with the beasts when Ragwort is clearly your assistant. Making sure I drink more and more and then putting me off guard so you might ask me questions about my intimacy with Elerina and now you ask me of my past!"

"I just wanted you to be honest with me, Sámaril. I am not unfamiliar with your people, and I well know how you will answer neither no nor yes. I want you to be direct."

"Why wouldn't I be direct? I do not play these games!"

"You were not so direct when I asked you of Eregion before."

"Great stars, Pairo! What did you expect? That I should advertise my association with the Enemy? And now Ragwort knows! May as well shout it to the whole bloody world!"

"Be calm, Istyar. Ragwort is nothing if not discreet. Is that not so, Ragwort?"

"Yes, my lord," came the laconic answer.

"I also wanted to see how you dealt with mortals. Let's say that quite a number of your folk whom I met in Lindon were arrogant and even contemptuous of Men."

"I am not like that. I have known the hearts and minds of mortals more thoroughly than you can comprehend."

"So I saw today. But you are for all intents and purposes wed to a mortal who is beloved to me. I wanted to be sure..."

"Did I pass the test?"

"You did. With flying colors. I'll trouble you no more tonight, but at least I know now."

You don't know the half of it, but I thought better of saying anything more.

We rounded a bend in the road, and in the distance, lights of torches flickered at the crest of a dark hill. "Ah, look, there's the manor," he said. "Won't be long now." Soon we passed by the paddock, the horses no longer grazing on it, but their scent lingered.

"Poor Carnhul," Apairivo sighed. "He will be vexed that I did not return in time for a ride today. But never mind that. We will ride tomorrow. You must come with me! Nothing better than a good ride in the morning to get the blood flowing and clear the head. Maybe not too early though."

"That's fine by me."

"Are you well, Istyar?"

"Am I well? I am drunk, Pairo. Congratulate yourself. You have managed to get an Elf drunk."

"Less of a challenge than I expected. I thought your folk shook off the effects of liquor more quickly than us mere mortals!"

"We do. Doesn't mean I won't have a headache in the morning."

"Elerina will be wondering where you are."

"She's probably asleep. At least, I hope so."

"I hope she will forgive me. I have been terrible, keeping you away from her as long as I have."

"She warned me about you."

"Did she now? What did she say?"

"That you'd question me. Intensely."

"So I did!" He chuckled. "Say, Carnhul told me something interesting about you."

"Your horse? What did he say?"

"He said you smell like lightning."

In spite of the numbness that had set in from drinking too much whisky, a shiver ran down my neck. I leaned back once more and closed my eyes to blot out the swirling stars, but a sad, dark memory continued to spin within my thoughts.

The remainder of the night was a blur after that: I lurched from the carriage and had to resort to a servant leading me to my quarters; then when I tried to be quiet as I undressed in the bedchamber, I stubbed my toe and cursed. Elerina remained undisturbed under the coverlet in the moonlight until I rolled into the bed. She half-woke and scooted toward me so that the curve of her back fitted against my chest, belly and hips.

"You are late," she murmured.

"I'm sorry, my love."

"It is all right. You are here now."

I pulled her closer, and soon her breathing eased toward the steady rhythm of sleep, but then a question that earlier had been careening around my inebriated mind worked itself loose and shot out of my mouth.

"What do I smell like?"

"You reek of whisky, my darling."

"Ai! I am so sorry! Here, I will go wash..." I did not know where I was going to wash at that time of the night, but she turned over and stayed me with her embrace.

"Sámaril, I love your scent: a man's musk but with that hint of green herbs like so many of your folk have. You can bathe in the morning."

"Oh. Very well then." 

She gave me a sweet kiss and then buried her face against the curve of my shoulder. She inhaled, her breath fluttering against my skin.

"There's something else," she said, her voice muffled.

"What is that?" 

"You smell like the air after a thunderstorm."

My spinning head threw me into a warm summer night in Ost-in-Edhil when we apprentices and journeymen milled about on the Istyar's terrace where we drank serce valaron, sang our songs of the smithies and toasted Aulë at every turn. Smiling at our antics, Istyar Aulendil had passed by me on the way inside to fetch more carafes of wine, and when he did, he left me in the wake of his scent: that of the air after a thunderstorm. And now many years later, my lover, and of all things, a horse, had each noted the same. Before I at last plummeted into sleep, my weary, half-dreaming mind gazed upon the wavering image of Apairivo washing and scrubbing his arms. I despaired for I would never be free of Sauron's taint, no matter how hard I scrubbed.