New Challenge: Potluck Bingo
Sit down to a delicious selection of prompts served on bingo boards, created by the SWG community.
I meant to be much further along with the story at this point - but somehow things that appear as brief keywords on my plot outline turn into full chapters in the execution. O.ó I am beginning to suspect that this will end up much, much longer than planned.
Chapter 4
After that conversation it took a while until I dared to return to my sculptures. I kept the apprentices busy in the forge so Father could finish his work on the chandelier, and I helped my mother to grind the pigments used to mix colours for painting and calligraphy, and accompanied her and her students to the clay-pits to bring home new clay for pottery and modelling, and I weeded the pumpkin patch and cut the brambles back, and I tidied the room my sisters and I shared. All these were necessary efforts (especially the latter), and I comfortably convinced myself that I really didn’t have the time to think about such selfish things as examinations.
When a week had passed I finally entered the studio again. The marble peacock stared at me with its empty stone eyes, and I decided that I would really give it eyes of ruby, simply to see the effect. First, however, there was the matter of its all-too-stony plumage to take care of. I experimented on the clay model with chisels of different sizes and shapes until it looked softer to the eye (though it remained stone to the touch; but that, I supposed, could not be helped). Then I had to remember just how I'd managed to bring that to pass, and had to apply that new-found knowledge to the actual statue, which took another two days. One more day was needed to work on its feet and claws and the pedestal on which it stood, which I wanted to look like a patch of dry ground, lumps of earth, fallen leaves, pebbles and all. This was a dancing-day, conveniently, so I could again avoid going to town.
I half-feared that Erenwen would bother me with foolish stories about Fëanáro the following day, but this time she mercifully stayed away. So now I had time to take care of the peacock’s eyes.
This turned out to be more difficult than expected for several reasons. The first problem I really should have anticipated, the state of the sculpture hindering my plans: As it was already balanced precariously on its two thin legs, and as the head with its beak and small feather-crown was already fully finished and moreover set upon a long and thin neck, I would have to be extremely careful in order not to ruin the whole thing. The chances of successfully removing such small chunks of stone without breaking anything else if my chisel slipped or I struck it too forcefully were extremely low, I knew. Everybody knew; it was beginners’ lore, really, but I had been carried away and look where it had taken me. Of course there were ways to put a broken sculpture back together, but it would mean additional work, and the overall effect would never be quite the same. I was angry with myself: I really should have known not to plan any changes on the head after finishing the rest of the statue. The easiest way out would have been to simply forego the ruby eyes, of course. But now that I had envisaged the finished statue with glowing red eyes instead of dull white, I could no longer be content without them. After much nail-biting and hand-wringing I decided to try.
This was when I encountered the second problem. Even when I had gathered the courage, when I had the chisel in my hand, when I was ready to begin, something held me back. I found it impossible, at first, to set my chisel underneath the peacock's stone eyelids and, with a strong (but not too strong) stroke cut it from its stone face to cleave hollows in which to set the rubies. My own eyes hurt in empathy at the mere idea of what I was about to do. “It is just a statue, silly,” I told myself – aloud, too, hoping that I would believe it when I heard it spoken. “It’s a rock, a lifeless, painless rock! It’s not a real animal! These are not real eyes! You of all people should know!” I gripped the chisel again - and turned away again. I don’t know how long it took until I could finally bring myself to bring that chisel to use. Perhaps the sculpture had turned out too realistic after all. Or, more likely, my mind was just being over-anxious.
It was a nerve-wrecking afternoon’s work, but somehow – I have no idea how – I managed, against all odds, to make hollows where the peacock’s eyes should be. Although the actual chopping and hammering I had done had by no means been exerting, I was breathing hard when I was done, and my muscles hurt from clenching and tensing as though I had been carrying big chunks of rock around all day. Still, I had succeeded in something I had thought almost impossible, so I went to sleep exhausted but proud.
Making the new eyes was much easier. I used garnets after all, thinking rubies too wasteful, and made two perfectly round spheres that I set in the marble hollows.
For the rest of the day I decided I had deserved myself some rest, so instead of doing something useful like helping my parents or starting a new project, I played around with the red clay we used to make small-scale models for planning sculptures. But I did not do any planning that afternoon; instead I formed the clay into wild flowing and twisting shapes, like brambles or wind-swept strands of hair or maybe like flickering flames, but not exactly recognisable as either. I did not plan to make brambles or hair or flames, anyway. I did not truly think about what I was doing. But I enjoyed working with the soft, yielding clay; it made a nice change from rock, which is hard and does not forgive mistakes. A mistake in clay can always be smoothed out with a little water and a little pressure; and if the result is not satisfying, why, you can start over and turn the same lump of clay into something new. So I let my palms and fingers do what they wanted. I quite liked the abstract thing that came out of it. Although it was abstract and unrecognisable, the shape was pleasing, and I thought that that, too, was a virtue, although of course the truth of it was that I had been wasting my time.
When evening came I got myself a sack barrow - the peacock was too heavy to carry – and wheeled the sculpture outside and to the garden. I waylaid Erenwen when she came out to fetch water to fill the washing basins, and showed her the finished peacock.
She broke into a broad grin. “You did give it red eyes! Brilliant!”
“Yes, I thought it would look more lifelike after all.”
“It does! Oh, it’s beautiful! It looks so real – I would not be at all surprised if it started walking around, and picking at the grass!”
“And screech,” I said gravely. There were peafowl in Yavanna’s gardens, and the din they made at the mingling of the lights was unbelievable – loud, keen cries that echoed off the mountains and, for some reason, sounded desperately sad, as if the birds didn’t understand the beauty of the softer light and didn’t know that it would grow strong again soon enough.
Erenwen laughed. “And screech, yes. It’s pretty enough to be forgiven some screeching.”
I almost commented on her regrettable tendency to forgive a pretty creature anything, but bit it back at the last moment. I did not want to hurt her. On the contrary – I had made her a present, hadn’t I?
“If you like it, it’s yours,” I said, smiling all the broader to drive away the ugly thought. She stared at me.
“You’re joking, right?” she said.
“Not in the least. I made it for you – unless you don’t want it.”
The water-buckets clattered to the ground, and I found myself enveloped in a tight hug. “Oh, Nerdanel, of course I want it, it’s beautiful.” She stared at me again. “What did I do to deserve such a gift?”
I clucked my tongue. “You’re my sister, silly,” I said, and she hugged me again and planted kisses on both my cheeks. “You should’ve made something small, like Sarnië’s squirrel. This is too much – you should sell it to the King, or gift it to the lady Yavanna!”
I laughed. “What would they want with it? King Finwë would laugh, I daresay, if I offered my services to him. He can ask any master sculptor that he wishes if he wants a carved rock for his garden! And Yavanna needs no animals of stone. You, on the other hand, are my poor little sister, and have to make do with my craft – and can’t escape it.”
Erenwen shook her head and clasped my hands, studying my face earnestly. “Oh Nerdanel, you are either jesting or blind. King Finwë would be hard put to find another sculptor who could’ve made something quite like this. However did you manage to make that delicate crown? And the feathers!”
I felt my cheeks grow warm, embarrassed by her enthusiasm. “See?” I said, trying to laugh it off. “From you at least I get some flattery, and count myself well-paid. Now, where shall we put it? The front yard, too?”
“Oh no,” she protested, accepting the diversion. “It’d disappear in the undergrowth there, and besides I can’t see the front yard from our room. Put it on the lawn near the window where I can watch it – I expect it’ll run away soon!”
We found a spot on the lawn near the apple trees that we thought would do well, although we had no time to see whether the view from our window was any good: Erenwen was late with the water now, and I had to hurry to bring the sack barrow away and help setting the table.
Erenwen would not speak of anything but the sculpture I’d made for her at the dinner table, and when the meal was over and Father had allowed us to rise, she rushed outside to show the apprentices what she was talking about. I stayed behind to avoid the embarrassment of hearing their reactions, and helped Father clean up. He was unusually silent.
“A peacock, Nerdanel?” he said eventually. “Don’t you think that’s a little cruel?”
I frowned at him across the table. “Cruel?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I certainly don’t need to tell you that, beautiful though they are, peacocks are generally associated with vanity and perhaps a little foolishness, or do I? It seems somewhat cruel to give your own sister a gift that that suggests that you think her vain, or foolish.”
He had a point, of course; I hadn’t chosen a peacock for Erenwen by coincidence. But I’d meant it in a harmless way, the way that she told me I was no beauty or the way that I told her she was silly. I said as much while we carried the used plates to the kitchen. “Besides,” I added, “it’s not like every sculpture I make must needs say something about the person I made it for!”
Father sighed. “A squirrel for Sarnië, and a fox for me; the idea that you made a peacock for Erenwen because you thought it fitted her especially well does not seem too far-fetched under these circumstances.”
Father took the pot of hot water off the fire, and mixed hot water with cold until one could bear to touch it; then he began to wash the dishes. I took a towel and dried the clean plates he handed to me. “But foxes are said to be sly and secretive, yet you took no offense,” I pointed out.
He gave a small smile. “Well, I assumed you were alluding to my nickname with the fox, and not to any base qualities I may or may not possess. I am not so certain about your motivation this time. I know that Erenwen sometimes behaves in a somewhat silly manner, but you mustn’t forget that she is much younger than you. It’s normal to be a little silly at that age, and overly concerned with one’s beauty and charms. Not everybody can pass from childhood to maturity at your speed, you know.”
I looked away, ashamed. “I assure you I did not mean to insult Erenwen,” I said softly. What if she, too, thought that I’d given her the peacock in order to tell her she was vain and silly? I didn’t want to hurt her, annoying though she could be! The thought that she might think my gift motivated by malice was enough to make me want to cry. “I love her, and though I admit that I believed a peacock would suit her well, it was still not meant to hurt her. I only wanted to make a gift that fit her.” My hands shook a little; I quickly put the plates away lest I’d drop them.
Father put a warm, reassuring hand on my shoulder. “Ah, now. I just wanted to make sure you didn’t mean your sister any harm – not do harm myself! Please understand I am not criticising your work – I’m sure you delivered something splendid, just as you did with the fox or the squirrel. But I was worried that you wanted to, how shall I say, put Erenwen in her place with it. And that seemed rather cruel to me. I’d hope we didn’t raise a vicious daughter.”
“You didn’t,” I said, and hated my voice for quivering. He pulled me into a hug. “No. Of course we didn’t.” He still held me close. “I am sorry for suspecting you wrongfully. And perhaps Erenwen won’t be as foolish as I was, and will be happy with her gift as she should be. I’m sorry, dear; I did not mean to hurt you.” I nodded, dully, and so we were reconciled; but I did not sleep well that night, and brooded over my work and Father’s words. He would not, after all, suspect me of cruelty wholly without reason. Had I done anything that suggested that I thought myself so superior to Erenwen that I’d want to ‘put her in her place’, as Father had put it? One or two instances did spring to mind. Would Erenwen suspect the same, then?
I spent a miserable night awake (though I pretended to be asleep when Erenwen got up early), and instead of working I took to the forest the following day, avoiding the garden where the peacock would tread on my conscience, avoiding people who might mention it, and avoiding above all Erenwen or my parents (though I’d left a note saying that I was going for a walk, so they would not worry). I came back home late, very late, when the others were already asleep. When I came to my bedroom, I found a painted leather binder on my pillow and in it three sheets of manuscript.
My favourite poem is the one Rúmil wrote about how, at the end of the Great March, our people reached the bliss of Valinor and passed through the Calacirya and saw for the first time the light of the two Trees, brighter and more beautiful than anything they’d known or imagined before. It’s a very powerful and very moving poem, I think, and no-one has quite Rúmil’s way with words.
The parchment sheets contained just that poem in very fine calligraphy, illustrated and illuminated. Our bedroom faced away from the Trees and was never well-lit at night, so I couldn’t see all that much, but the illustrations seemed painstakingly detailed and gloriously beautiful even in the dim light, and I could hardly wait for the morning when I could study them properly. On the final page, almost hidden in the margin decoration, Erenwen had signed her name.
I surmised that she was not offended or angry if she left me such a gift. That night I slept much better, and with the words of Rúmil’s poem in my dreams.
I suspect "Rúmil's" poem will get written at some point, though I'm afraid neither I nor the English language can do it justice.