Ulmondil by mouse

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The Yoke

Tuor does some street corner preaching. Maeglin disapproves.

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“The Doom of the Noldor draws near to you, O inhabitants of Gondolin! The time has come. The day is near, a day of tumult and not of joyful singing in the mountains. A day of lamentation and mourning and woe!”

Voronwë was lying on a bench in the Way of Running Waters. He had been watching clouds with light airy crowns and dark voluptuous bellies pile up in the sky, and listening to the sweet whispers of nearby fountains, when Tuor’s voice rose in the distance.

“Behold, the day! Behold, it comes! Pride has blossomed and violence buds — violence, and destruction! Every heart will know fear, and hands will be feeble. Every spirit will faint, and knees will quiver like weeds in the water. Behold, your Doom is coming!”

Voronwë sighed and sat up. It wasn’t that Tuor’s voice was unpleasant to listen to. He had a nice enough voice, and he certainly was good at projecting it. But each time he shouted “Doom” the dark clouds overhead seemed to take on a more dismal aspect. Now they reminded Voronwë of elephant seals he had seen moulting on the beach at the Havens, huge and still and miserable, with pale old skin hanging in scraps over a swelling dark undercoat.

Plus hearing Tuor shout “destruction” reminded Voronwë he had brought Tuor’s harp with him, to see if it could be fixed at the Great Market. Voronwë thought he had better stop at the Place of the Gods on his way to market and make sure Ulmo’s Chosen wasn’t starting any fires.

The Place of the Gods was a wide open square framed by oak and poplar trees, with its northern side occupied by a tiered platform of white stone. As he approached the square from the Way of Running Waters, Voronwë could see Tuor standing at the foot of the stairs that led up the platform. A single-beam ox yoke sat on the Mortal’s shoulders with its curved wooden bow fixed under his neck, and Tuor wore rugged clothes from his outlaw days: a sleeveless tunic made of weather-beaten bearskin and short, coarsely-woven trousers that were wide and loose across the crotch but fitted on the legs. Voronwë suspected the trousers had been gleaned from a slain Orc or Easterling, but Tuor always looked so comfortable when he wore them that Voronwë had refrained from asking him.

A dozen curious Gondolindrim were gathered around the yoked Mortal, with more passersby steadily drawn in by his spirited speech, or perhaps by the sight of his beard, which had grown quite long and had interesting variations of light and dark gold in it. Before Voronwë could get close, he heard his name called, and then a startling clatter of hooves and cart-wheels rushed up to him. He hastily stepped sideways to avoid being run down by a team of snorting horses, and looked up to find Lord Salgant looming over him from a two-wheeled chariot driven by his young squire.

The chariots had become a fashion in Gondolin just before Voronwë left for the Havens. Generally the Gondolindrim used them in sporting races or other forms of showing off, such as running along the ridgepole between the chariot and the horses and hurling javelins at targets while the horses ran at a gallop. Only Lord Salgant seemed to be using a chariot for daily transportation.

"Well met, Voronwë," hailed Salgant, leaning on the side guard of his chariot until the vehicle wobbled and his squire looked back in alarm. “How is the Ulmondil? Is that his harp? Let me look at it. Give it here.” Salgant leaned down to wrest the harp away from Voronwë. “I heard what happened in the Place of the Well yesterday. Such a pity. Though this is a primitive instrument. What are these strings made of?”

“Bear sinew, lord,” Voronwë answered.

“How — er — resourceful. Does he kill another bear any time a string breaks, or … I suppose other sinews will do as well?” Salgant looked with some apprehension at the Mortal in his Orc-pants. “I would be glad to gift a new harp to Huor’s son. Tell him I shall have one sent to your house.” Salgant lowered his voice. “I must say it is tragic how the boy’s sufferings have deranged him. You know, you ought to take him to Loremaster Pengolodh and the healers, Voronwë, for examination. I know we all have questions about the Mortal body, even if you have satisfied your curiosity already. When Hurin and Huor were here— Oh, my prince! How pleasing it is to see you!”

Voronwë was only slightly less uncomfortable with the discovery that Prince Maeglin had come up on his other side than he had been with the direction of Salgant’s conversation. Maeglin, at least, was on foot and at eye level, though he was not looking at either Voronwë or Salgant. The black-haired, black-clad Lord of Moles took in the scene at the centre of the square with an impassive face.

“Did someone find a use for the Mortal?” Maeglin said. “Good.”

Salgant laughed in nervous excess. Voronwë found it impossible to tell if Maeglin were joking. Salgant ordered his chariot-driver to bring him alongside Maeglin, but the eager horses overshot, and could not be persuaded to reverse, so they ended up doing a rather wide turn about the square to bring Salgant back around. Just when Salgant got into his desired position by Maeglin, Maeglin walked away. He strode purposefully into the gathered crowd, who gave way for the King’s sister-son, whereas Voronwë, following in his wake, got stopped at the edge of the crowd with a curt, “No budging.”

“Thus says the Lord of Waters,” Tuor declared in a loud voice. “Love not too well the works of thy hands and the devices of thy heart. All the works of the Noldor will perish, and every hope which they build will crumble.” He clasped the ends of the yoke around his neck, causing a rush of admiring murmurs as the muscles in his shoulders sprang to life. “This yoke represents the Doom upon the Noldor, which they cannot lift, neither by valour nor by secrecy. They carry it with them, even into the Hidden City."

"Ulmondil, what does the Lord of Waters advise us to do?” asked a dark-haired Elf-maid standing to Tuor’s right.

“The counsel of Ulmo is to retreat down Sirion, and dwell at its mouths near the Sea.”

“Is there no Doom at the mouths of Sirion?”

Tuor adjusted his yoke a little. “Well, no. The Doom will be there too.”

“But it will be a better Doom?” she persisted. “Perhaps with less violence and woe?”

“That I cannot say,” Tuor replied.

“What about this retreat down Sirion?” asked an Elf from the other side of the crowd. “Sounds a bit dangerous. The Sea is leagues away. Will Lord Ulmo provide us with invisibility cloaks, like the one you wore into Gondolin?”

“I think you dwell too far from Ulmo’s power for him to aid you directly,” Tuor responded. “The springs of Beleriand have been poisoned, and his power is withdrawing from the land. But perhaps when we get closer to the Sea…”

“When you say ‘all’ the works of the Noldor will perish,” Lord Salgant called from his chariot, “do you mean mostly our kingdoms and cities, or does that include works of art? I mean, if one has written songs and operas of wide renown, surely these could never perish entirely?”

“Your walls, your gates, your armies, none of these will stand against the forces of Morgoth the accursed. But hearken to me, people of Gondolin! Ulmo spoke of a last hope, a hope that you have not prepared — a hope that will come unlooked for and unforeseen.”

A chorus of clear Elven voices rang out. “Does he mean the Valar?” “Is it the Vanyar?” “Will King Fingolfin return in our hour of need?” “Will we discover a new invincible metal?” “More eagles?” “Bigger eagles?” “Tell us, Ulmondil!”

“The hope will come unforeseen,” Tuor repeated, with the slightest crease in his brow. He looked from face to face, pausing when he met Voronwë’s eyes in the back of the crowd. “I cannot tell you what it is. I do not know.”

The silence that followed grew awkwardly long. Then Maeglin spoke up.

"The people of Gondolin obey the will of the King and abide by his laws. To incite them to do otherwise is sedition. This is a poor way to repay the grace the King has shown to both your father and yourself, Tuor son of Huor."

Though Maeglin kept his attention on Tuor, the prince's words of reproof caused the other onlookers to draw back. Salgant's chariot flew down the Road of Pomps soon after Maeglin said “sedition”. The rest of the crowd began to disperse, and murmuring Elves brushed past Voronwë as he alone pressed closer to Maeglin and Tuor. Maeglin, who had stood with hands clasped behind him in a studious pose, now held out his hand to Tuor and asked, "Might I have a look at your Doom? I think I see a crack in it."

Tuor lifted the yoke over his head. It was an antiquated piece of equipment, long out of use, and Voronwë saw there was indeed a crack in the beam. Maeglin took the yoke and tilted it this way and that. Then, with hands that routinely hammered rock and metal into submission, he twisted the ends of the beam in opposite directions and broke the wood apart as easily as if it were a bit of kindling. He passed two splintered pieces back to Tuor.

As Maeglin turned from him, Tuor spoke in a voice that was too quiet for anyone other than Maeglin and Voronwë to hear, but was as deep and cold as the water in an underground cavern. "You have broken a wooden yoke, but in its place you will get a yoke of iron."

Maeglin said nothing and strode away in the direction of the palace.

 

The heavy clouds burst while Tuor and Voronwë were walking together down the Road of Pomps. At first Voronwë didn’t mind the rain, and Tuor appeared to hardly notice it, being quieter than usual with his head bowed in thought. But then a wind blew out of the north fierce enough to break off tree branches and send them whipping face-high through the air. Voronwë and Tuor took shelter in a small pillared arbour that was walled in with thick ivy they had to push aside to enter.

Tuor immediately pulled off his wet bearskin and threw it down with a sigh of relief. Voronwë sat down on a wrought-iron bench and squeezed some of the rain out of his hair, watching without much surprise as Tuor crouched in front of him. With hands planted on the ground, Tuor rested his knees against the back of his arms, shifted his weight forward and lifted his feet one by one to point behind him.

“I don’t think I told you before,” Tuor said, looking up at Voronwë as he balanced on his hands. “I had a dream in Vinyamar, of an island in the uttermost West with a mountain, and a single brilliant light above it. It looked like a star, but bigger and brighter than any star I have seen before. Do you know of this star in the West?”

“Aman lies under the same stars as Beleriand,” Voronwë replied.

“What do you think I saw?”

Space drake? was Voronwë’s first thought, but aloud he said, “What do you think it means, Ulmondil?”

“I don’t know. But I wanted to share it with you.” Tuor, still balanced, now brought his legs over his arms and began to carefully extend them straight in front of him. “Some days I wonder how long I will go on speaking this Doom, hearing it, seeing it, waiting for it. I feel weary and I wonder why did Ulmo choose me for this. I think you must have wondered the same, when you were grieving for all those you lost in the shipwreck and yet you guided me here, to a place you had no wish to return to and now may not leave. You are an Ulmondil too, Voronwë. And it comforts me that our fate is shared.”

“If it offers more comfort,” Voronwë said, “I can tell you that I do not wonder why Ulmo chose you, Tuor son of Huor. You—”

Tuor lost his balance and fell forward. Voronwë quickly caught his head to stop him from smacking it against the iron bench, while Tuor braced his hands on Voronwë’s legs to push himself onto his knees.

At about this moment the ivy curtain was pushed aside by another wet Elf in need of shelter: the dark-haired maid who questioned Tuor earlier, whom Voronwë now recognized as Idril’s handmaid Meleth. She took one wide-eyed look at Tuor on his knees leaning over Voronwë’s lap and Voronwë with both hands on Tuor’s golden head, cried “Ai Elbereth” and disappeared again.

 

“Oh, Voronwë, the size of it! I don’t think I’ve ever seen one so big before.”

Salgant’s gift was carried into Voronwë’s cottage by four Elves in livery blazoned with a silver harp. The gift itself was a floor harp only a little shorter than Tuor, carved of amber-coloured maple wood. “What a brute the bear must have been,” Tuor said in admiration.

Voronwë could see the strings were made of very fine wire, not sinew, but before he could point this out a messenger walked in through the open front door and handed him an envelope sealed with scarlet wax in the shape of a heart.

“Manwë and Varda,” Voronwë uttered at the sight of the royal seal. He ushered out the curious delivery-Elves and shut the door behind them, wondering if he was about to read charges of sedition. He quickly broke the seal and read the message. “The king has invited— commanded us to appear before him on the day after tomorrow.”

The harp had been deposited in the centre of their front sitting room, and Tuor stood there plucking experimentally at its strings. “That is well! Perhaps now Turgon will heed the warning.” His face changed and he stopped playing. “Do you think that … all the king’s household will be there?”

“Probably,” Voronwë answered, feeling a little seasick with Maeglin’s deadpan face and freakish strength still fresh in his mind’s eye.

Tuor left his harp to gaze at a looking glass that hung on the wall opposite the front picture-window. He scratched his head and stroked his beard thoughtfully before saying, “Perhaps I ought to get a haircut. Oh, that reminds me. I saw Lord Glorfindel this morning.”

“Why does getting a haircut remind you of Lord Glorfindel?” Voronwë asked.

“I’m not sure. Anyway, he told me the opening chariot races are tomorrow and that you and I are welcome to watch them from his private viewing area. Ecthelion will be there, and perhaps some of the other lords. He also asked if he could paint me. Is this a Noldorin custom? Will the paint come off easily afterward?”

“He means to paint your portrait, on canvas,” Voronwë replied. “Yes, you’d better get a haircut. Or at least a beardcut.”

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Chapter End Notes

1. Tuor’s act is inspired by, but does not accurately portray, the prophet Jeremiah and his parable of the yoke in Jeremiah 27—28. Tuor’s speeches draw on both the Book of Ezekiel and the words of Ulmo in “Of Tuor and His Coming to Gondolin”.

2. According to Unfinished Tales, J.R.R.’s notes indicate Tuor delivered Ulmo’s warning either ‘in the hearing of all’ or ‘in the council-chamber’. I am writing with the assumption that the official message was delivered in council but that Tuor’s arrival is well known to the general populace.