Friends of Nimrodel: Tapestry of Dreams

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MINAS TIRITH

The morning sun glimmered on the northwesternmost edge of the fourth circle of Minas Tirith. Cold mountain winds snapped the clothing hung in the rearmost recesses of the estate. From the clotheslines, a servant-girl carrying a wicker basket of clean laundry walked past the stables and toward the house. But she veered , drawing closer to the smithy whence sparks snapped and bellows blew, and blades hissed as they were quenched. She stood a moment and watched while several hammer blows fell. They rang loudly but she did not wince.

The young blacksmith turned to stoke the fire, and greeted her with a smile. "I almost have it, " he said. "All but the-- ah-- the sixth verse from the end. Do the waves splash or wash?"

She smiled, shifting the basket from left to right. "Neither:

When dawn came dim the land was lost, The mountains sinking grey
Beyond the heaving waves that tossed Their plumes of blinding spray."

"Heaving waves that tossed... You could have sung it for me, " he reproached her with a smile.

She smiled and turned towards the house.

He picked up his hammer again. "I'll sing it for you tonight, after dinner. I'll have it by then."

She laughed. "I'd best hurry, if I hope to be back in time to hear you sing it! Today is market day, and there is no small pile of things to wash."

As he worked, he sang, the gentle tune contrasting strangely with the blows of his hammer. And the same strains, shredded and whipped by the cold mountain winds, flew from the house into the neighboring buildings. Brother and sister, separated by chores, echoed each other throughout the day. Neither knew it. But one with keen hearing standing betwteen the smithy and the house would have heard two voices, singing at different times, the same song.


An Elven-maid there was of old, A shining star by day.
Her mantle white was hemmed with gold, Her shoes of silver-grey.

A star was bound upon her brows, A light was on her hair
As sun upon the golden boughs In Lorien the fair.

Her hair was long, her limbs were white, And fair she was and free;
And in the wind she went as light As leaf of linden-tree.

Beside the falls of Nimrodel, By water clear and cool,
Her voice as falling silver fell Into the shining pool.

Where now she wanders none can tell, In sunlight or in shade;
For lost of yore was Nimrodel And in the mountains strayed.

The elven-ships in haven grey Beneath the mountain-lee
Awaited her for many a day Beside the roaring sea.

A wind by night in Northern lands Arose, and loud it cried,
And drove the ship from elven-strands Across the steaming tide.

When dawn came dim the land was lost, The mountains sinking grey
Beyond the heaving waves that tossed Their plumes of blinding spray.

Amroth be held the fading shore Now low beyond the swell,
And cursed the faithless ship that bore Him far from Nimrodel.

Of old he was an Elven-king, A lord of tree and glen,
When golden were the boughs in spring In fair Lothlorien.

From helm to sea they saw him leap, As arrow from the string,
And dive into the water deep, As mew upon the wing.

The wind was in his flowing hair, The foam about him shone;
Afar they saw him strong and fair Go riding like a swan.

But from the West has come no word, And on the Hither Shore
No tidings Elven-folk have heard Of Amroth evermore.