Si la mar fuera de leche by Chestnut_pod

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Chapter 2

Readers, please note that this is the chapter in which the warnings about offscreen infant death and children in danger appear. 

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Aeglosbes, trading Murre-Admiral, bore the usual two letters to Tar-Minyatur of Númenor from King Olwë of the Swanhaven and the High Serenity of Avallónë, and one to Elros, from no signatory. 

 

She had also brought a stylus of engraved whalebone for Vardamir, who was bashful with her; and a smoothly formed soapstone snow goose for Tindómiel, who adored her and insisted on endless stories from the Lossoth with whom Aeglosbes had lived and traded before her death and removal to Valinor. 

 

Elros glanced through the letters from Olwë and Serenity Erusérë -- further discussion of turning a relationship of aid into one of trade, and some fine-tuning of the plan with the palantíri -- then at the unsigned one and finally to Aeglosbes, who stood watching him steadily while rolling up her gutskin correspondence pouch.  

 

“I thank you for your dependability and willingness to serve as messenger, as always,” Elros said. 

 

“Thank you, my lord,” replied Aeglosbes. “As ever, it is a privilege to visit the Isle of Gift.” 

 

“Where do you go from hence?” Elros asked. 

 

“To Forochel, my lord, to trade in oils and furs during the thaw of the great Icebay, and to see the great-great-grandchildren of my sworn sister, who yet remember me and welcome me home.” 

 

Elros nodded, reminded of his thoughts before the-- arrival. Forochel and the Icebay were a long voyage indeed, but they avoided the problem of the north shore of Aman and its ruler. 

 

“If you are willing, some ships of Númenor might seek your services as a guide this summer, in search of winter oil. Our sailors are respectful and will not presume upon the inhabitants or take more than is needed.” Though, he thought, our need is still great. 

 

Aeglosbes nodded. “I will think upon it, my lord,” she said. “I am unaccustomed to treating with my family as a merchant admiral, yet taking some apprentice sailors upon my own dear Nais and giving over a part of my hold to them would not test guest-right.”

 

Elros thought a moment. “Perhaps that is a better option,” he mused. “As you know, our ships are not yet tried beyond our near coasts, and we do not know the Men of the northern lands. I shall see to it that Galor Guildmaster comes to you, to speak about taking on learners and to discuss payment in kind or labor.” 

 

Indeed, Elros thought, that was a more prudent course of action, requiring less investment of sailors and ships, and Aeglosbes was both kind and diplomatic to offer it. She looked stern, however, or perhaps her round, brown face was merely thoughtful.

 

Very formally, she said, “Your Majesty is aware that other friends of the deep swim straight to the north of his island, and they may be reached at less cost of time and danger than where I go for reasons of the heart.” 

 

Elros inclined his head. With equal formality, he replied, “We are aware,” and no more, and knew himself for a fool. 

 

Aeglosbes bowed slightly, and said nothing. Elros let out his breath in a rush and slid incautiously down from his throne, which still gave him splinters at unfortunate intervals. 

 

“Friend Admiral,” he said, once again informal, “I see you have brought gifts for my children, and they will be all delight to see you.” 

 

A fool he might be, but a fool he was now free to be. Tindómiel would be delighted by new stories. 

 

--

 

The traders stayed until the new moon. With Aeglosbes, Elros drafted missives to Alqualondë and Avallónë, while Zamîn dictated to him what was needed and what could be provided in trade. Little, as yet, but more each season. 

 

Alone, he stared at the letter to “Elros,” an activity far less fruitful. The Lady to the north had sent three ships loaded with great sacks of loam and a dry, crumbly compost material, and her letter contained a description of how to layer scrap fabric and soil and compost for immediate and successive planting. This technique, the letter recounted, she had helped develop for sandy and marshy soils at the mouths of Sirion, which she expected would work equally well on compacted soils and bare rock. 

 

Elros had first worried that the earth might hold strange worms or beings unknown to them. One of the farmers had told him it was just as well, though: plants needed such things. Then he had worried that they might be worms of the wrong sort, as the escaped horses of the Noldor had been the wrong sort to the grasslands they grazed to the roots. A different farmer had pointed out that there were no such worms here, unless they could eat basalt. Finally he had worried that they did not have sufficient scrap fabric, until Zamîn had reminded him that the instructions said they could use kelp, and that if he wanted the dirt to be of any use this year, he should stop fretting and let the farmers get on with it. 

 

He took Vardamir and Tindómiel out to work on the soil once it was laid, as much as a nine-year-old and a just-five-year-old could work. He remembered, in snatches, pushing down the beet seeds that were almost all that would grow in the garden of the little Queen’s House of Sirion, where the king tides left sea rubble almost to the gate. The greens had been so salty that soups made with them had needed no other seasoning. Vardamir whined a bit at being taken away from the scrolls and codices Aeglosbes had brought --the seeds, Elros thought, of a royal library-- but no child could resist getting thoroughly muddy with no repercussions at all, and even Vardamir was a child yet. 

 

It would also be well, Elros thought, to let them love the dirt here. A childhood on the sand and ever-changing marshes by the river endlessly running away to the sea had given Elros no strong roots. 

 

There was enough soil in the ships for a foot of it on three acres, and Elros in consultation with the farmers set it all with mushrooms. They helped trees grow, the farmers told him, and more trees they must have. Moreover, there had been two children with rickets among the families that moved inland, and the mushroom fruits might help. Wheat would have to wait for a proper irrigation system, and root vegetables might disturb the new soil too much. The corner he kept back he set with beets anyway. It was a small strip, and closest to the salt winds of the sea. Guiding Vardamir’s soft hands the right distance into the soil, while Tindómiel drenched the seeds and them with her bucket, he noted how different the act seemed with no light to illuminate each grain of earth. Simpler to tell the difference between seed and soil.

 

Elros thought perhaps that a fourth ship full of pure and practical survival was not a fluke. He admitted he had thought the wondrous ship carrying sea vegetables in tanks of glass might have been, that first year. And the third year, the school of ships wallowing low in the harbor carrying whole boulders encrusted with mussels and oysters. Even the sixth year, when Aeglosbes had brought nineteen Sindarin healers who accepted no payment for teaching each ship-clan everything they could in a year, and left behind them chests of medicines stamped with a feather and star -- and had taught Elros himself that he could do more than lay his hands upon his people and will them healed. 

 

A fourth ship deserved a letter in response, perhaps. 

 

Even the King’s House had not the fuel to waste on staying up dithering over a message. Elros rose with the dawn, Zamîn breathing softly behind him, and walked out onto the great living rock terrace that spanned the front of the King’s House. By early sunlight, he wrote the simple facts of the new plot.

 

We have a species of mushroom carried by chance on a barrel in the hold of the Rôthzôr that has fed that ship’s families well these ten years. We washed the fruits in buckets of freshwater and sprinkled the suspended spores over the newly laid earth. The chief farmer of that ship, Zâinabên, tells me that the mushrooms will make a lace underground, which will guide the roots of future trees to be planted in late autumn and, in the meantime, strengthen the bones of such children as cannot have fresh fish regularly. Melons and cucumbers have been planted alongside to provide shade and shelter and hold the soil against wind. Zâinabên will keep notes which will be copied and sent back with Murre-Admiral Aeglosbes at this time next year, for the mutual enrichment of our knowledge. 

 

Elros laid down his quill. It looked already to be a bright day, perhaps the first truly hot day of the year. A decade, and at last he could tell the weather from the sky at dawn. A decade, and at last he felt sure each of his people would eat when the cold came back. 

 

In a rush, he picked up his quill again, and wrote, I taught my children to plant beets. 

 

Then he folded the letter thrice, and returned to bed. 

 

--

 

“There must be about seven score baskets immediately ready, and we can set ourselves to making as many more as possible before your departure, if you truly think they will sell. Overcharge for the small ones, of course.” 

 

Zamîn spun, as always. Today it was dog and goat hair at the precious spinning wheel -- thread for blankets then, and a day for negotiating rather than striding about at the task of “hands-on ruling,” as she called it. Three days before the new moon, the straggling ship captains looking for goods or gossip were thick as sandflies on kelp. Elros cast a weather eye at her audience from the threshold. Linyahísë and Ferneliltë, a ship captain and her caravanner wife who traded into the Tirion hinterland, were in rapt attendance. Such was ever Zamîn’s effect, he thought fondly, even when she was scheming to defraud curiosity-seeking Amanyar for the sake of Númenor’s nascent industry.  

 

“Call them artisanally handcrafted, fairly traded sea noodle baskets,” Zamîn continued. “Or if you can think of something other than ‘sea noodle,’ do it; but I don’t think ‘thongweed’ sounds any better, and your type already think we are so quaint and childlike, so why not give the customers what they want.” 

 

Linyahísë and Ferneliltë wore that particular expression of mildly chagrined avarice that Elros saw not infrequently on those Noldorin traders the reborn Sindar and Nandor suffered to join the murre-fleet. Elros decided to stay behind the door a moment and see more.

 

Ferneliltë opened her mouth, but Zamîn continued.

 

“If you can cause a fad, so much the better; upon your successful return I will ask the families if they can spare a child or three to take up square-knotting and make some pleasantly useless trinkets for selling; that sort of thing is quite possible nowadays.” 

 

“Your Majesty,” Ferneliltë broke in, but Zamîn added more carded hair to her distaff and rode over her.

 

“I do understand, captains, that even twelve-score baskets would fill but a fraction of your hold, and that you mean to go on buying with ship’s biscuit what heirlooms my people saved from Beleriand. I assure you, however, that Númenor’s early troubles are nearly over, with the refitting of our own Great Ships nearly complete, and it seems quite possible that this trade shall no longer strike us as profitable.” 

 

Here she paused and bestowed upon them a smile of such glimmering serenity that Elros thought gleefully of Elrond at his most heraldic.

 

“Perhaps, even so, a more gainful relationship can be found should you succeed. Númenor certainly intends to become a center of craft, and why should Aman be deprived of our works? A royal patent for an exclusive trade in handicrafts to Tirion would be a fine thing.” 

 

Linyahísë and Ferneliltë exchanged glances out of the corners of their eyes. Elros wondered if Elrond would be able to sense the edges of the thought-arrows that must be darting back and forth between them. He thought he knew something of their direction nonetheless: what potential, they must think, in being granted a patent from a land that had been tended from jagged rock into almost-fruitfulness in what must seem, to them, the blink of an eye. 

 

“My lady queen, it would be our great honor,” said Linyahísë, making a pretty courtesy. 

 

Zamîn flashed them another dazzling smile and inclined her head slightly. The spinning wheel whirred on. “May our collaboration be rewarding, Man-friends. I shall have our secretary draw up our terms immediately. Now, our share of the profit on the baskets: put absolutely all of it towards best-quality sailcloth. If there is none to be had, then a large quantity of tough hempen thread will suffice. And, as we are partners now, I shall expect that a share of the profits from the heirlooms my people give you will be yielded to them as well, as is proper. I anticipate your return and our subsequent partnership.” 

 

Elros judged this a fit moment for an entrance. 

 

The traders jumped and made their bows, and behind their lowered backs, Zamîn winked at him. 

 

“Good morrow, captains,” he said, and struck his kingliest pose. 

 

“Good morrow, Your Majesty,” they replied. There was a moment of quiet, then Ferneliltë ventured to add, “We are lately discussing terms of trade with your lady wife, should you like to review them.” 

 

Elros made an expression of the eyebrows he had learned from Gil-Galad, and said merely, “Tar-Zamîn rules in all such matters and her judgement is our own. We should like to speak with her on matters of state. Excuse us.” 

 

Ferneliltë snapped her mouth closed, then opened it again, but Linyahísë must have done the mental equivalent of treading meaningfully on her toes, and she held her peace. All four nodded magnanimously at one another until the traders finally nodded themselves out of the throne room.

 

“That never grows less amusing,” Elros remarked, once he was sure they were out of even the pointy earshot of Elves. 

 

“I thought they had best prove themselves once or twice before I let slip that there may be mithril in the mountains of Forostar.”

 

Elros barked a laugh. “Wise with great wisdom you are!” 

 

“More like shrewd with great suspicion,” Zamîn said. She let the spinning wheel whir to stillness and stood, stretching. Fibers rose in a puff around her and caught the light like dandelion seeds in summer. Elros smiled and stepped forward to catch her around the waist while her arms were still up, and Zamîn startled and laughed and wiggled about like an eel. 

 

“Ouch, ouch, my breasts, stop squeezing me,” she exclaimed, and Elros leaned back reluctantly. 

 

“Was Tindómiel bitey this morning?” he inquired. Zamîn sighed. 

 

“No, she hasn’t nursed in days. She might finally be weaning herself; it is about that time.” She pulled a face. “I think it’s my courses coming back.”

 

She thunked her head into his shoulder and made a noise like a sea cow. Elros patted her hair sympathetically and tried very hard to do some arithmetic in his head.

 

“I don’t even have sphagnum stored up anymore,” Zamîn complained, her voice muffled by Elros’ clothing. “It makes one almost miss the brink of starvation.”

 

Elros felt her shudder, and she added, “I don’t mean that.” 

 

Vardamir had hardly even cried after Zamîn lost her milk when he was three months old, and no one else had the food to spare to nurse him except Losseth, and she only because her mite of a daughter had died before she could even be named. Elros tried to count back again -- after that, Zamîn’s courses hadn’t come for years, until suddenly she was pregnant with Tindómiel, quite unforeseen. Though things had been more stable, the whole cycle of fears had gripped them again: the scant crops failing or the cobbled-together royal household abandoning them, and always the worry that her milk would fail again.  

 

Zamîn did not protest when Elros clasped her tighter, though her breath hitched. Elros gave her a small squeeze, and said only, “It really has been almost ten years, hasn’t it?” 

 

Zamîn nodded. “I suppose I was ready when Vardamir was four, but we must have conceived Tindómiel the very instant it was possible. We will have to be more careful this time.” 

 

Another Tindómiel would indeed be a mouth too many, Elros thought, or at least a worry, and he did not realize how tightly he must be pressing Zamîn to him until she made a little noise of discomfort and gently pushed out of his arms. She kept hold of his hand, though. 

 

“We will survive, minalya,” she said. “We can plant your beet patch with pennyroyal too, if it comes to that.” 

 

What more was there to say? Elros gave her hand a squeeze, and she smiled at him, mouth crooked. 

 

“Come look,” she said. “Something is fruitful and the better for it.” So saying, she drew him over to the spinning wheel and the basket of hair. 

 

“This,” she said triumphantly, “is mostly goat.”  

 

Elros bent down to peer more closely at the fibers and the thread on the wheel. 

 

“Such luster,” he said. “How beautiful -- this cannot be from the milchgoats, can it?” 

 

“No indeed,” Zamîn said, gleefully swinging his hand. “These are the work of the Angorodin goats brought over by the Drúedain. They hail from Emerië, where the grasses self-seeded. The Drúedain have kept them well and begun to breed them for our mountains and steep valleys. Never has there been a goat like these!” 

 

 Elros grinned at her. “A new goat?” 

 

“The newest of goats!” Zamîn replied, glowing. “This thread will make a cloth quite unique, and then I will show those jumped-up Tirion merchants the largesse of the Isle of Gift!” 

 

“Is this a gift to us from the Drúedain?” 

 

Zamîn tilted her head. “They gifted our house four pregnant nannies and a buck, just as they gave us breeding pairs of the wool dogs. I believe they wish to stay in Emerië, unmolested, and they see that the way to do that is, well, goodwill and conciliation. I say we leave them to it; the loss of Beleriand hurt them as never so many others, they who honored the hills and forests as forebears.” 

 

Elros nodded. The Drúedain had loved their woods and highlands, and if Númenor had not yet woods, they had escarpments to spare, and he had little heart to press a people bound to him through no ties of family or fate into his endeavor of a nation. In any case, he was not yet to the point of needing to distribute land to purchase loyalty. If ever he should be -- well, perhaps he would not; all was yet parlous. 

 

“Well then, Zamîn Ever-Weaving,” he said, rising to his feet and making sure to brush all the fibers clinging to his hands onto his wife’s skirt. “Does this require me to make a new treaty before Aeglosbes departs?” 

 

“No, the goats need experimenting with,” Zamîn said, flapping her skirts to create a hairy whirlwind, grinning wickedly at Elros as he flailed. “But you had better procure a secretary from somewhere and fix our sea-noodle deal to parchment.”